nature poems

Raindrops – A Poem by Roy Pullam

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I do not understand
A raindrop
Its chemistry so precise
Though unique
Yet it has the conformity
Of millions
Kindred element combinations
What coaxes it
From the clouds
The subject of prayers
Both before and after
First reluctant
Then with a rush
Becoming a flood
I can’t fathom
How it can help
So much
Then turn in rage
Carrying hopes and ambitions
Downstream
It is the nature
Of water
To be
A blessing and a bane
To defy both
My beseeching
And my curse

Lawn Order – A Poem by Stan Morrison

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larvae and worms rework decay
giving impartial entropy to matter
weeds outstrip intentional growth
life requires death to carry on
fallen leaves blanket dormant plants
through winter’s freeze to rebirth

Mid-November – A Poem by Stan Morrison

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The vines are so spent
nearly devoid of fruit,
a few bunches hang on
only to be plucked later,
late harvest is sweeter
more prized for enduring,
the skies grey chill
tule fog rushes in,
cold silence then storms
that promise new birth.

Burning Wood | Asbina

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What about burning wood? It’s warm, there’s no harm.
Aged by intense heat of sunlight, you know that’s right
It shrinks small and turns as thin as itself, the stick, though some are thick.

There is something about those golden flames
Fidgeting and flickering just like in the game.
Ever so eager to dance around the kettle
As it rattles a song of a battle.

Don’t despise them just because it’s summer
Sooner or later it’ll be winter.
Make sure you fit in those sweaters
Oh! look over the horizon, it’s coming now there’s no waiting for later.

As fire tirelessly chews and smokes away the wood
Its scent found a permanent place in my senses, to me it’s like a food.

Why the Golden Plover Stands – A Poem by Trish Saunders

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I came to study the language of trees,
an ancient tongue assumed extinct,
like the Laysan honeycreeper or
shave-ice shacks on
Like-Like Highway, where Aloha Gas now sits.

I came to study koas and palms.
I found an old brick wall with a
golden plover standing motionless
beside it, though he flies
1,600 miles from Alaska without rest.

Like the plover, I came expecting more.

No Free Passes – A Poem by Scott Thomas Outlar

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There is nothing new under the sun,
especially on a morning when the clouds
turn the world a shade of gray,
blotting out all sense of warmth
as the skin becomes blistered and fragile
against the sharpness of Winter’s bite.

One more step closer
to the yawning grave
that waits with perfect patience.

Everyone will die in the end.
The reaper has no worries
while going about such a simple job.

Batting a thousand with pinpoint precision.
He just hit another one out of the park.
There is no way to pitch around this guy.

More at http://17numa.wordpress.com/.

The Mad Wiseacres – A Poem by P.K. Deb

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In the kingdom of wiseacres
wisdom is made captive property
and all are automatic to be bewitched
and involved in blind chasing and counter-chasing.
So my sister’s wit chases me,
my brother’s wit bites me
and my friend’s wit barks at me
since my wit makes them foolish.
Some may be wistful wooer to one another
Yet they make themselves withered
and thus withstand in the composition of an epic.
The woeful importunity may be wordy
but noisy to the ears of the wiseacres
and hence unheard mercilessly.
Nevertheless, the earth rotates and revolves
and the world gives indulgence to wiseacres
and witnesses all to be deaf, dumb and blind
in the rescue of captive wisdom
from the clutches of the mad wiseacres.

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