An ode to Mother Nature; poems that take their inspiration from the great outdoors.
She vaped in my tea the mango, to sweeten the lemon. I take it as it comes. Lemon heating wounds and honey dripping from the cup.
By Avocado Nunzella BSc (Psych) -- M.A.P about a month ago in Poets
Surrounded and supported by ones we hold dear Like the branches and roots of a tree Pushing and pulling, changing every year
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsdenabout a month ago in Poets
flower stems do backbends over my stretched-out-visage breeze rises goosebump mountains on my arms in the distance a monastery bell sends a soft alarm
By Rowan Finley about a month ago in Poets
It isn’t there anymore, that ancient oak, once the school logo, before the school climbed the status ladder from community college to university
By Harper Lewisabout a month ago in Poets
I come from hands that knew the dirt, that pressed seed into stubborn ground without guarantees, only faith and a farmer’s patience.
By Ashley D. Gilyardabout a month ago in Poets
The life we made was destined by our vows - Put our roots down together, hand in hand, Plant seeds of our future no matter how
By Phar West Nagleabout a month ago in Poets
Fire consumes all below the surface Swallowing whole the fullness of my reasons for still being And igniting them Setting alight the feelings
By Emma Weirabout a month ago in Poets
This fire is burning my life to the ground I watch in horror Unable to save anything inside All my fears s and regrets My childhood, my first love
By James Seabrookabout a month ago in Poets
vibrant and saturated the colors of a true heart never fade gradients arrange and repeat the values lay broken a square of earth down ten feet
By ⸘jason alan‽about a month ago in Poets
I’m a tree in the time’s river The current is fast and then slow The water flows and then runs low Time isn’t much of a forgiver
By Linétte about a month ago in Poets
Penny's farm lost in a coin toss. And the unborn foal she got as a result was born a gangly red colt with three white legs and a star and strip on his face. They named him Secretariat.
By Colleen Waltersabout a month ago in Poets
There’s a moment—quiet as breath— when the fire forgets how to rise. It leans back into itself, a tired dancer folding at the waist,
By Waqar Khanabout a month ago in Poets
