Best Nature Poems
Below are the all-time best Nature poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of Nature poems written by PoetrySoup members
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Nature
Poem
Alabaster Night
There is stillness in this chilly night
How peaceful is a planet so glimmering white
Where frost and moonlight weave a silver glaze
Where sillhouetted trees are black as ink
And only signs of life are whiffs of breath
Let me stand and drink upon the sky,
Then rest my eyes upon the glory of the world
Upon these strange and unfamiliar hills
I give my thanks for how such soothes my soul
Winter has buried our world in alabaster white
Familiar landmarks wear a cloak of new disguise
Yet still the same are scattered thorny lights
Splattered wildly in the blackness of a sky
Winter has polished up the stars tonight
Brilliant, new, until their points are thistle sharp
How peaceful is a planet so glimmering white
To stand in voiceless wonder and gaze
Do not speak, the crystal world would shatter
Too fragile to bear the weight of words
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Nature
Poem
Down Fall
Within the warmth of home, I sit amazed
at the gentle fall of snow through window pane.
Cup of tea in hand, my layered thoughts unchain,
and tumble from the tip of tongue unfazed
to land upon a pristine page appraised,
aided by the silent fall through snowy pane.
Oh, the soft white wintry glow 'pon the lane
leaves a graceful drape, Lord be praised.
Within the warmth of home, I muse on themes
of days to come and those gone bye and so,
I thank the Lord for all of nature's schemes,
for the gift of time, for peace, and for the snow.
Oh, make the blanket deep, I wish to dream,
may all my days and 'morrows have this glow.
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Nature
Poem
The Conundrums of a Peaceful Warrior
....figured if a woman cut my hair,
if anyone but me, cut my hair,
superstitious doubts could wedge
into my mind as splinters.
In a child-like stupor,
I was stunned, transfixed
by scissors flashing in the light,
as 27 years of my 3 + 7 = 1,
fell to the floor around me in a circle,
something akin to a wreath of protection.
And did this ceremony purge the warrior?
Naye,
the sacred bow and arrows are in my bones,
my wounded knee is merging with an eternal afterglow.
I cannot destroy the warrior -
thought my armour to be disintegrated by insecurities,
but the armour is etched into my skin.
No longer do I want to be a soldier. There's a difference.
My raised fist is not theirs to have.
I will no longer raise my fist for them.
I. Will. Not. Raise. My. Fist. For. Them -
for their intellectual righteousness,
for their right to fight,
their right to be wrong.
I will not partake in their mental Apocalypse,
the battle of evil over good,
good over evil....
....the source is beyond such frailties,
such impure illusions.
The over-thinking is sucking away simple feelings.
Simple, beautiful, pure, emotional mathematics:
1 + 1 = 1
1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1...........still equals 1.
1 sperm + 1 egg = 1 birth, even if twins are born.
1 twin + 1 twin + brothers and sisters + 1 mother + 1 father = 1 family.
1 tree + 1 tree + millions of more trees = 1 forest.
Don't over-think it -- feel it. Equality.
Once good and evil are melted back down,
joined into two sides of the same golden coin,
there is only One.
All in All. The Sacred Forest.
The beasts feed me, I feed them in return,
lay my weary head upon their fur,
fall asleep to the pounding of an earthy heartbeat,
awaken to the fluttering of wings and song.
And they want me to raise my fist against this!?
And they want me to raise my fist against this!?
I am transmuting into the conundrum of a peaceful warrior,
slaying defilers of the Sacred Forest
with the roots in my blood,
on a board that doesn't have boundaries -
a Kingfisher, a slayer of kings.
When all that's left is to love,
when all that's left is to love,
then Love, I will protect.
July 2nd, 2012
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Nature
Poem
September
"September, beautiful month of my birth, is nigh, but I cannot feel glad."
September, drifting in with glow of moon,
you stifle Summer’s ardor. . . and she grieves.
In guise of fire, the Fall comes all too soon.
Your breath grows cool. You’ll blow and loosen leaves.
The hills and woodlands will reflect new hues.
You stifle Summer’s ardor. . . and she grieves.
In Autumn’s chill, the colors are a ruse.
For as you pass, the trees are set ablaze.
The hills and woodlands then reflect new hues.
Though warmth may linger through your final days,
old Sun is waning, yet he still seems strong!
For as you pass, the trees are set ablaze.
September, you’re a melancholy song.
Though time be short, you paint a brilliant dusk!
Old sun is waning, yet he still seems strong.
October looms. . . Your ending will be brusque.
September, drifting in with glow of moon,
though time be short, you paint a brilliant dusk.
In guise of fire, the Fall comes all too soon.
by Andrea Dietrich
For the contest of Constance La France ~ A Rambling Poet ~
"A Poem, Please"
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Nature
Poem
Autumn's Season
Autumn brushes her hair slowly
Letting the glorious colors
flow gently to the earth below.
Showing off vibrant colors
in contrast to summer's green dress.
Out doing the starkness,
of winter's white coat.
Autumn compares the mutable
shades of spring to her fall
Giving a sigh ,end of another season.
She packs her brush
as frost touches her tips.
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Nature
Poem
liquid little stones
liquid little stones
skipping and skittering free
on shared umbrellas
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Nature
Poem
An Invitation to Dance
When fields gleam aureate and song birds sing
and transient stars in clusters scintillate,
when sweet perennials are coaxed by spring
to blossom forth, he comes with sprightly gait.
He wends his way along the mountain trails
past opalescent rush of streams and rills,
goat-footed, on the paths that ribbon dales
and wind around and up and down small hills.
Then nymphs appear as, through the woods, he trips
to flower-smitten meadows. Fancy-free,
he leads them with his reed held to his lips,
till blithely they embrace his rhapsody.
So hear the music; watch the wood nymphs spin. . .
Then captured by sheer merriment, join in!
For Nathan A.'s ANY POEM GOES Poetry Contest
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Nature
Poem
Evening Dew
When twilight's spectral fingers fold
Sweet blossoms of every hue;
Some half opened bud will hold
Its pearls of evening dew.
Touched with every sunshine hour
The eternal earth has shown
All the perfume of the flower
Till it finally becomes its own.
We that wait may never find
A chance to sing our praise;
For memories we seek to bind
Take the scent of fading days.
The poet who has never spent
His words in futile strain;
For him the misty dewdrops lent
Their diamonds to the rain.
Unfastened in their fragrant bell
They tell their own dear tale;
Then from the cloud from which they fell
Their haunting scents exhale.
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Nature
Poem
In Long Quiet
The last place you're likely to see me in life,
is where I'll be after,
among the oaks, the hickory, and elms,
beside the wash of a shallow creek with no name.
The distance of it will span the length of my desires.
The simplicity of its long years will be my own.
It can speak to you,
in the somber and silent voice of the forgotten.
If you will hear it, it will come to you as the rustle of a prairie's dance,
in the evening, when the whispers of my life stir the southern wind,
and help carry the weight of those who would be remembered.
And in that valley where the locust grows over graves,
mine will sit beside the one I call, Silent Thorn,
On the high ground, out of the river's reach.
The wood and stone there hold my mark,
though it be a restless speck in quiet days of watching
There I'll be dead ... and born of the same substance.
And when the maple's leaf turns red to fall,
I'll be there to see it.
When the dogwood blooms to welcome spring,
when it casts the flower to sleep,
I'll be the shadow that shades nearby,
til' the night take its comfort to resting hollows.
Should you lay on the ground, looking past the branches,
you'll find the stars looking for me,
down through broad green turned grey by twilight,
and into black, where my smile can't be seen again.
If the earth moans under the cold,
it only misses the heat of my fires,
crackling in the distant wood.
There will come morning and birds' songs,
where they cry not my passing, but waking
in their company ... as I have always been.
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Nature
Poem
Four Sisters
Spring, stirs her eager young
Giving life, renewed to those
Who stand about and doze
She whispers hope, of things begun
Beneath winter's cold repose.
Summer, smiling golden rays
With ample breasts of rain
Feeds, and soothes the pain
Of changing white to green to gray
While dressing her wards again.
Fall, donning multicolored hues
Weeps, her leaves cascading
As her life is brilliantly fading
She takes with her the morning dew
Leaving frost in the trading.
Winter, wearing crystal shards
Bares her nudity to all
Standing gracefully tall
She lays a white robe upon my yard
While singing her wanton call.
And I.....well, I sit passively by
Watching through shielding glass
Four sisters marching past
Thanking God who dwells on high
For His daughters stark contrasts.
Timothy I. Brumley
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