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Showing posts with label Nature Poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Nature Poems. Show all posts
Sad Love Poem about Raining The Cloud Falling through the Blackest Oceans
The Cloud.
Falling through the blackest oceans,
Can’t see or hear a sound,
Only of my heart thumping slower,
Sinking to no where but down,
Eyes stitched with agony,
My mind pulling me deeper into the ground,
Replaying the untold story of tragedy,
Burying me where I was once found.
In a world where fire gave darkness,
And darkness brought pain,
The torture of dwelling,
Driving a once sane memory, insane,
Driven into deep thought of lone,
Where it rained till it snowed,
Each flake turning sharp,
Splinters stabbing from within,
Being smothered by the dark.
Awaiting for the day the shadows fall far,
To give but little of light,
To one hidden star,
To save me from this door that has been left so carelessly...!!!
00:59
Best Nature Poems a Large Poetry Collection About Nature
Stray Birds
I
Stray birds of summer come to my
window to sing and fly away.
And yellow leaves of autumn, which
have no songs, flutter and fall
there with a sigh.
II
O Troupe of little vagrants of the
world, leave your footprints in
my words...!!!
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Uprooted.
It took all our weight to drag the chain
over the stump, my brother
and I heaving links heavy enough
to strangle hope. Our hands lost
in grandfather’s big work gloves,
slick grass betrayed our bare feet.
The tractor vibrated low. Hummed,
screeched, and began humming again.
Smoke marbled gray the blue morning.
Where we once played king-of-the-hill
on the stump’s weathered face, we now
played Judas with an iron-linked kiss.
Grandfather spat Red Fox
tobacco, feathered the clutch once
to tighten the noose. The engine leaned,
a runner into wind, as the chain notched,
deep into the wood, a lover’s
embrace gone shockingly wrong.
The stump shuddered, groaned, wrenched
from the earth and tilted skyward.
I don't know what we expected.
There were no secrets.
No ghosts. No magic. Only
naked roots torn from the earth.
We stood with hands at our sides,
lost in the tremor song of earth,
all of us, broken like a promise.
Air so raw, it scratched our lungs.
Days passed, until once more we
circled the stump. Each of us, secretly
hoped enough time had passed
for the love that married this stump
to earth to slip away. We then laid
axe to wood and released the rings...!!!
My Doves.
Opposite my chamber window,
On the sunny roof, at play,
High above the city's tumult,
Flocks of doves sit day by day.
Shining necks and snowy bosoms,
Little rosy, tripping feet,
Twinkling eyes and fluttering wings,
Cooing voices, low and sweet,
Graceful games and friendly meetings,
Do I daily watch and see.
For these happy little neighbors
Always seem at peace to be.
On my window-ledge, to lure them,
Crumbs of bread I often strew,
And, behind the curtain hiding,
Watch them flutter to and fro.
Soon they cease to fear the giver,
Quick are they to feel my love,
And my alms are freely taken
By the shyest little dove.
In soft flight, they circle downward,
Peep in through the window-pane;
Stretch their gleaming necks to greet me,
Peck and coo, and come again.
Faithful little friends and neighbors,
For no wintry wind or rain,
Household cares or airy pastimes,
Can my loving birds restrain.
Other friends forget, or linger,
But each day I surely know
That my doves will come and leave here
Little footprints in the snow.
So, they teach me the sweet lesson,
That the humblest may give
Help and hope, and in so doing,
Learn the truth by which we live;
For the heart that freely scatters
Simple charities and loves,
Lures home content, and joy, and peace,
Like a soft-winged flock of doves...!!!
The Journey.
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do
determined to save
the only life you could save...!!!
The Sky.
The sky is low, the clouds are mean,
A travelling flake of snow
Across a barn or through a rut
Debates if it will go.
A narrow wind complains all day
How some one treated him;
Nature, like us, is sometimes caught
Without her diadem...!!!
The yard half a yard,
half a lake blue as a corpse.
The lake will tell things you long to hear:
get away from here.
Three o'clock. Dry leaves rat-tat like maracas.
Whisky-colored grass
breaks at every step and trees
are slowly realizing they are nude.
How long will you stay?
For the lake asks questions you want to hear, too.
Months have passed since, well,
everything. Since buildings stood
black against sky, rain hissed from sidewalks
and curled around you.
O, how those avenues once seemed menacing!
I know what you miss
sings this lake. Car horns groaning
in rush hour. Sweet coffee. Wind
pounding like hammers. Warmth of a lover.
Crickets humming love songs to the street...!!!
02:59
Best Poems About Nature a Large Poetry Collection of Nature
Morning.
As the hummingbirds were hovering
At the awakening of the Morning Glory,
Awakening from the bowels of the sunrise
And you were basking and smacking your cherry lips,
As you sucked the dewdrops of the morning
I kissed you as you were blossoming and blooming...!!!
A Village Story.
Krishnakali In the village they call her the dark girl / but to me she is the flower Krishnakal
SUPPOSING I became a champa flower, just for fun, and grew on a branch high up that tree, and shook in the wind with laughter and danced upon the newly budded leaves, would you know me, mother?
I should slyly open my petals and watch you at your work.
When after your bath, with wet hair spread on your shoulders, you walked through the shadow of the champa tree to the little court where you say your prayers, you would notice the scent of the flower, but not know that it came from me.
When after the midday meal you sat at the window reading Ramayana, and the tree's shadow fell over your hair and your lap, I should fling my wee little shadow on to the page of your book, just where you were reading.
But would you guess that it was the tiny shadow of your little child?
When in the evening you went to the cow-shed with the lighted lamp in your hand, I should suddenly drop on to the earth again and be your own baby once more, and beg you to tell me a story.
"Where have you been, you naughty child?"
"I won't tell you, mother." That's what you and I would say then...!!!
“Redwoods line the little pocket of near-the-sea park”
Redwoods line the little pocket of near-the-sea park
we deem John Muir’s proper lair,
trees clustered dreaming aloof yet not lonely,
so many serene and cunning uses in their green hair:
nests for animals, birds chiefly but not only,
where the feather-light mat of canopy seems to mint
flora like coin and can sound its light drum
to the skitter of woodpecker and rare salamander,
then the trunk’s grand long midriff
and shallowly-entrenched root-clutch
sending burl-shoots high or sideways,
subtle essence and all kinds of knowhow,
insect-survival hints held archive-deep in the bark,
cones ready to shoot seed and start
the deep earth-stirrings a little at a time warily,
in the urgent time when comes
heavily and smokily the fire.
Deep as passion the red and alive the glint
of sunlight igniting the green’s own brilliantine choir.
Half-burnt-out and hollow the giants fairly
shrug and sigh and aspire higher.
towering like mighty Ossians of Scotland
above the forest floor’s fern and sorrel,
above even the easy poetic grace of bay laurel.
And always the alive hum feeding the lyre,
the wind’s soft yet restive whirrings
through the redwood’s Aeolian harp strings.
Duino Elegies done! This, Rilke’s cry
to all his friends and lovers in blissed-out ink…
now I too feel the primordial “mountain high,
perched watchtower over my own just-scaled long heart-sink
upslope brutal to thighs, heels, shins, knees, ankles.
So nearly lost, so many times bruised, made lame:
gust-beaten twists, leg-braced torques up chimneys, at angles,
slips into the void avoided up slant moraine
broken as my eggshell scuffle and scramble.
Spread calm soft over my soul, pretend how vain
was the climb, or that this was all cat’s paw, goat’s nimble.
If I let amazement ricochet through this frame
joy goes into the gorge. Don’t undermine
what’s left. Be valley, be grape. Hold tight to your vine...!!!
Surprise.
I have held so much faith:
watered daily the roots of love
when every leaf of this tree was blasted
by freezing winds, every branch twisted by lies.
Too much salt I poured into the soil;
but nature is forgiving.
I know this. Head and heart, I know
that nature gives, forgives,
and blesses faith.
Spring returns because it will,
not begged, but built
on star's pull, on earth's tilt,
on leafmold's rotting pages.
Faith, have I not turned these sad, dead leaves?
So now when sweet sap learns again to rise,
when blossoms peel, unfold and glow,
and love with time grows wise,
why, my faith, my shy one,
do I feel so much surprise...???
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