nature poetry
An ode to Mother Nature; poems that take their inspiration from the great outdoors.
I Before Me, Except After Be
I am, though not now, as I was, sat looking over slimed frogs, in their pools of pond, hopping and jumping and living as they see fit. I hear softly birds chime from afar as creaking branches and sodden leaves in squidgy mud remind me peacefully, as I might add, of the gracious satisfaction that life gives to us in its finest decor. Time and myself roll by like the wind, as I toil between picking up irksome litter and avoiding uninvited dangers. When, and to my surprise, a three-legged rodent, scurrying out of the browned waters leaving its tail in tow, pursues life as it is and how it always has. Having noticed that I am there, it darts steadfast out of sight, through nettles and other living leaves, and so I know why he runs. As I have done before from the overwhelming existence of higher power, disbelief and conflict, too tiny to comprehend an eclectic universe full of unknown wonder and splendour. While back in my place, I look out over my beautiful brook and smile contentedly at the glistening drops of moisture hanging to the brook like the hand of a small girl crossing a busy road with her mother, and it knows not why I too am scared of it. Resplendent magnificence ensconces me and my fellow dark oak trees, and form a tranquil getaway for an eye-baller with too much to require. In a sense, like I had expressed to be free, I know my weakness stems from purpose. Which is how I came to know. Just as life knew too, I am here to observe, as well as life of me. Ascending through the exploration of limitless discord uniformity, where sentience derives, past any evolution, as much from action as from word. An infinite loop entangling creation and definition into a singular explanation, that is true for its time and already outdated by an incremental velocity of discovery.
By S R Gurney8 years ago in Poets
The Fall
We so often associate "falling" with something negative: failing, giving up, losing your footing. Yet Fall, the season, is arguably the most anticipated, the most exhilarating, the most beautiful season of them all. Why the contrast between "falling" and Fall? We watch the leaves gracefully turn from summer's rich green into autumn's sultry orange and red--a change they may or may not have welcomed--then, just at the peak of their beauty, cascade to the ground, leaving behind only bare branches that await the next flood of color, resembling new life. Like us, leaves fall...but blanket the earth in beauty when they do. Why do we stand in awe of the leaves that fall, yet condemn our own selves when we fall? Change always precedes a fall--both in our lives and in the leaves...but so often we get lost in the action of "the fall" that we miss the beauty of "the change."
By Anna Johnson9 years ago in Poets
