An ode to Mother Nature; poems that take their inspiration from the great outdoors.
'The cougar would only hunt at night While the innocents were tucked up in bed Her hunger was matched only by her wiles Or so said the voices in the silver fox’s head
By Sean Bw Parker9 years ago in Poets
Love love love. Conquered Love. Kissed peach-pink rubble. Defeat me. And her peach-pink and kissed rubble. Skin-tight, mashed.
By Shaun Sundance Yates .9 years ago in Poets
She bathed beneath the gorgeous summer light that seemed to shine from another life Stretched out beneath the vast shades of green leaves that mimicked whispers she had heard before
By Ariana Ehrhart9 years ago in Poets
There's nothing new to write... Only the same words in the same sheet. The birdcage is open, my thoughts disperse like origami birds... What's written on them?
By André dos Santos9 years ago in Poets
I have as little control As the rain slipping from the eyes of skies— Of people, of places, Red rain salvaged from my own veins.
By Emma Sidnam9 years ago in Poets
I feel the need to welcome myself to the realm of beginnings Where the air is as pure as the purest linen sheet, Where there is a view of an infinite white field of quiet feelings.
By Laura Jiménez9 years ago in Poets
He is the sun and he is the moon. Which one shines brighter? His beautiful golden rays beam at me whilst glistening against the bright blue sky,
By Chloe Urquhart9 years ago in Poets
The sun rises on the innocent and the guilty Water quenches the clean and the filthy Animals die for the helpful and the hurtful
By Conjury9 years ago in Poets
What are you to me? You're my home when I feel homesick. My place to live when I feel like dying. My chaos in this orderly world, and order in my world of chaos. My home, Gand. Ghent, Gent.
By Ingkor bergen9 years ago in Poets
Digging up potatoes is satisfying, When you put the fork into the ground and big spuds, baby spuds come up. In the fresh summer air (a little muggy perhaps) you admire your roses and fuchsias against a blue or overcast sky.
Home is the crisp autumn leaves: Burnt orange, gilded, as fire breathes. Nature is the wool around my heart, A breeze filling my lungs, never apart.
My skin is my continental plate hiding the web of blood vessels and ivory. My bones are made of stone and moss, held together by centuries of pressure
By Jocelyn White9 years ago in Poets
