Sestina Nature Poems

These Sestina Nature poems are examples of Sestina poems about Nature. These are the best examples of Sestina Nature poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Sestina |
Around the base of the tree the banks of bluebells flower
Tall and straight but weak of stem, beautifying the forest
Cultivated by nature, leaves for compost, untouched by hand

The flowers are admired by all, gathered by children’s hand
To crush out the perfume from within the flower
Pressed into a book a reminder of the fairy tale forest

Forever in your memory the waving ocean of blue forest
A canvas brought to life by James D Preston hand*
Though missing the perfume of this beautiful small blue flower

Flowers of the Forest natures canvas in your Hand

                                                                                            a link to the painting.

Form Tritinia

Copyright © Seren Roberts | Year Posted 2013

Details | Sestina |
Longing for heart-quiet
in the inevitable fall
into Winter’s short days of sun
forwarding to Spring’s
longer days — a circling back
in the sameness of time.

Heart-and-mind-numbing time
with no respite. A longing to quiet   
those thoughts playing back
battle after battle. The awful
repetition. Mind and life wasting.
And, in the darkest season,

the conviction that the sun 
will only half-rise in this lifetime
of mine. Feeling that sting 
as from a bee’s disquiet
of green slumber. Swelling to a fault,
every damned day. Slamming me back,

season upon season. Holding me back.
Chilling me with doubt that sun-
shine can overcome rainfall
and that, invariably, given time, 
better times will come and quietly 
advance into Spring. Fast forward, past Spring 

to Summer, and onto Fall springing
back to Winter, and round again. Flashbacks
ever more glaring under the sun, then, quite
out of the blue — a glance, a nod. Overrun 
with fluttering, my heart paces in time
with fledging love’s free-fall.

And, with the passing of another Fall,
Winter heralds in the sweetest of Springs:
daffodils and Easter bonnets — a lifetime
of celebration ahead, no looking back.
Past risk and reason, I bask in the sun
that is love’s shine. Rain or shine, quiet

in the peace of it all, Fall after Fall, back
to Winter, Spring, Summer. Quiet as a Spring sun 
bursting through clouds. Love, for all time, requited.

Copyright © Ruth Sabath Rosenthal | Year Posted 2014

Details | Sestina |
Land, sky and sea, sing their songs. Land sings of rich soil, for growing seeds; as the silvery sea, sounds its gurgling waters. It sings a medley to the blue And cloud-puffed sky. I lend my ears to that cloud-puffed sky; listening to its songs. At first, it makes me feel blue, but joy quickly fills my heart-seed; fed by spiritual rain-waters; that ride the winds from the heavenly seas. The wondrous, singing sea, sings back to sky and I enjoy the waters; singing those sweet songs, to the seeds in the soil and to seeds like me, who get the blues. As the sky of blue, sings to the seas and my seeds; they stretch leaves to sky and its wonderful song intermingles, with that of the waters. All seeds need water, to relieve their thirst-blues. I hum along with the songs, that ride my souls seas as they crescendo with heavenly sky’s; to quench the thirst, of all Gods seeds. I am a proud seed; I drink spirit’s waters; am nourished by Heaven’s sky, of sacred blue and silvery seas. I am grateful for those songs. I listen to the songs, that nourish all of God’s seeds. I thank the Earth and seas for their generous, cleansing waters. No longer do I feel blue and like my plants; I am also grateful to the Heavenly sky.

Copyright © M. L. Kiser | Year Posted 2014

Details | Sestina |
Malicious, plotting squirrel, sends its angry rain. Oh, the liberties it takes, with my precious fruit trees. A pear slams into my head; my temple, burning blue. Rising lump of blue, from vicious squirrel; swelling on my head from his violent pear-rain. Standing beneath the pear tree, I do a double-take. Squirrel always takes; gives nothing; leaving me so blue. Into the top of my pear tree, moved the squirrel; flinging his pear-rain, hard upon my head. The growing lump, smarts on my head. Whatever it takes, I’ll end this horror rain; I’ll make squirrel so very, very blue. I will dine on pears from my own trees! They are my trees! Stop hitting my head. How dare you, squirrel! You must not take all and beat me black and blue, with your violent pear-rain. Your angry, rabid rain, Of pears from my tree, built a gigantic lump of blue, upon my tender head. I’ll do whatever it takes to evict you, Mr. squirrel! No more, pelting pear rain; beneath sky of blue. You’ll leave my trees, whatever it takes! No more glaring lumps, upon my head; your notice, has been served, Mr. Squirrel.

Copyright © M. L. Kiser | Year Posted 2014

Details | Sestina |
In my vegetable garden, 
birds are watching me, pick 
green beans to eat.
A lone robin, scrounges for seeds, from sun flowers.
An old, twisted oak tree, 
filters the sunlight.

The cool, filtered light, 
is just right, for my garden.
Beneath that oak tree, 
are ripe tomato’s I need to pick,
for my supper.  Mr. Robin flits upwards to a sun flower.
He’s found his seeds and eats.

His fill, he’ll eat 
and rest in the moon’s light.
Ms. Deer gnaws only, flowers, 
as I leave the garden.
No doubt, if I hadn’t picked
My vegetables, already; he’d be devouring them, beneath that shady tree.

I chased her to a distant tree; 
tossed her an apple to eat.
She’ll be back to take her pick
More, I know, by the evening moon’s light.
She’ll return to devour my garden; 
and will also, eat the flowers.

I plant bulbs and flowers,
away from my garden and the tree; 
hoping Ms. Deer, will avoid, my garden; 
preferring to go and eat, 
by the evening moon’s light; 
while I sit with my guitar and pick.

Tomorrow, if they’re not eaten, 
I’ll go out and pick, 
a nice bouquet of table flowers, 
in morning sun’s, bright light.
As it filters though the trees, 
that grow beside my garden.

When evening comes, my guitar, I’ll pick, in the waning moon’s dim light.
Ms. Deer, her fill, of flowers, will eat.
Oak tree beds down, for the night, beside the garden.

Entered: Knight Writer's Club Grand Opening - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Tyshawn Knight

Copyright © M. L. Kiser | Year Posted 2014

Details | Sestina |
Celestial music rings,
riding waves,
in the ethers.
every note,
of every song,
does its aerial dance.

As voices in prayer dance;
reverberating rings, 
echo each soul’s song;
upon Etheric waves.
Every note, 
a precious gift on the ethers.

Souls ride the ethers; 
swirling, twirling, they dance.
The resonance, rings every note, 
like a bell rings 
out upon the waves 
of air, to build a sacred song.

Spirit songs,
on the ethers;
oike ocean waves,
in celebratory dance;
play celestial scales and bells ring
out each precious note.

Each bell-like note,
echoes its own set of songs,
like church bells ring
through the heavenly ethers.
All life will dance
upon those heavenly waves.

Earths ocean, womb-waves;
swirl and sway to every celestial note.
Back and forth they dance;
in rhythm to the songs,
as upon the ethers;
the music of life rings.

Hear the ring, on the waves.
Ride the ethers and become one with each note.
Absorb life’s song and with all life…dance!

Originally Written: 3-2014

Copyright © M. L. Kiser | Year Posted 2014

Details | Sestina |
Drought cooks a garden; 
foliage’s veins and arteries burn.
One wonders if rain will return; 
the ground, an abstract of cracks.
Baked by the sunlight, 
plants retreat; leave desolate dry land.

Miles of parched land, 
can’t share its lifeblood, with thirsty farms and gardens.
Farmers pray for rain and sunlight; 
when they lose crops, they feel nature’s burn.
Dying fields of cracks, 
pray in secret for rain’s return.

As the farmer prays over his tax returns; 
he lists lost crop overhead and pictures his dry land.
A tear falls upon the memory of dry, gaping cracks.
Unlike the gardener both feel the same burning.
Both are vulnerable; farm and garden;
to the ultraviolet blades of searing sunlight.

Many years of fiery sunlight,
Without rain, leaves a bleak tax return.
A farmer’s inner light still burns; 
he’ll see, if a job, he can land.
He and the gardener,
will have success; when the spring rain fills the cracks.

Over-achieving clouds spit; crops thrive in the sunlight.
Unlike the gardener; 
The farmer has a more interesting tax return.
Spring rains will fill the gaping cracks.
At one with the land,
his rage, no longer burns.

Come fall, his fireplace logs, will burn.
The coming winter, brings its own style of cracks.
Snow-blanketed land,
gleams in the sunlight.
When spring makes its return;
birth comes to crops and gardens.

Both celebrate, with anxiety burning;
formulating planting plans, for their land.
Land without cracks, 
will yield plants, upon the rains return.
Praying that the sunlight,
will be kind to their crops and gardens.

Copyright © M. L. Kiser | Year Posted 2014

Details | Sestina |
Sitting under a tree, old and grey
No flowers to bloom, leaves falling down
Birds desert the nests, no one to play around
The clouds are around, they hold no charm
Gave shade to many, no one to shade us
Waiting to fall one day, are we made for each other?

Copyright © Suresh Iyer | Year Posted 2010

Details | Sestina |
          Bug Destiny

Round tiny bug moves slow along the garden path
Avoiding traffic as it trudges along
Carries the hardened armor of its ancestry
Down there too, through the centuries
The weight of that nobility 
With it, on its back, through history
Portals of time laid out in its direction
Its lineage developed skills for battles
In darkened bitter caves
With aging somber rocks in far off lands
And along the seasoned shores 
Over millions and billions of years

Ants search day and night for this small creature
Little round bugs are a staple on their menu
They will not rest until
This morsel is served up in honor of their queen
Solo insect as black as death
Stands by in armor ready

Ants take their forces onward against the drop of day
Their tiny march relentless, endless and grave
Black bug hunkers down in his encasing
Waiting In case bad things should happen
And to survive another day
The army attacks  
Storms in on solo bug in stark surprise
With concise incisions ready
Sharp mandibles set to dissect it on the spot
Little bug has one last trick
It tastes of sour and stinky feet
The ants retreat defeated

Round bug makes its rounds about the garden gate
In its cultivated aged defense makes it to another day
Future generations will praise this day
That kept their kind alive 
Depriving queen ant of a nasty meal
Of destinies surprise

Copyright © Earl Schumacker | Year Posted 2014

Details | Sestina |
Where light and darkness meet
That’s where you’ll find me. 
My voice is breaking,
But I know that you can hear
Every word that I speak.
My eyes are looking towards you.

I’m constantly thinking about how you
Would always want to meet
Me outside of church and the words you’d speak
Were too much for me. 
I was worried someone would overhear,
But there was only some strong wind around that would make the trees break. 

I don’t think you know what it feels like to have a heart break.
I will not accuse you, 
But I want you to hear
The wind howling and the trees breaking and think of the first time we met.
What did you first think of me?
I know you’d rather not speak.

The trees speak
And say that there’s only a matter of time before the earth will break.
I wish you would be like the trees and think of the earth as if it were me.
I always think of you.
Let’s go outside to meet
Because the wind begs to hear.

I want to hear
All of the lies you speak.
Where light and darkness meet
There my heart will break.
Why can’t you
Learn to love me?

The trees lean against me.
The wind always hears
All of my complaints about you.
The trees speak 
And they are telling me that you’re about to break
Right where light and darkness meet.

Every night the wind howls at me, and then I can hear the words you speak.
I wish you could hear me and listen to all of the tree branches break, 
But you can’t when all that you ever do is wait for the light and darkness to meet.

Copyright © Courtney White | Year Posted 2017

Details | Sestina |
Sunlight at an angle dancing through colored leaves
Cool nights to snuggle beneath the sheets; warm days of ease
Last of gardens harvest; goodbye to summer's bees
Joyful time to harvest soon days a breeze
Pumpkins, winter squash, turnips, and peas
Food in bounty stored away for many days

Christmas will be upon us in just a very few days
The yard will be raked again and again to rid of leaves
Garden vegetables will be stored also cooking of peas
For right after Christmas comes New Years Day with ease
The howling winds will blow and it won't be just a breeze
But now all the bugs have disappeared_gone are the bees

We will not have to worry with yellow jackets or bees
As the night grow longer and shorter the winter days
March soon will come in bringing its strong breeze
Those indominable buds show forth on the trees soon leaves
We will float into warm days and beauty of  spring with ease
Now we will have eaten most of those delicious peas

Soon in the newly planted garden_those early June Peas
Newly hatched from their hiding places comes those bees
Just lying around in the hammock with all this ease
These wonderful times_joy of longer days
Joy, oh! joy and joy again with spring's green leaves
Soft and gentle comes a blowing spring's warm breeze

But there is one less chore now for there is no raking leaves
Afternoon in the lazy hammock oh what ease
Glad that in the garden and Pampas Grass stay those bees
These times in life are just fun and a zephyr breeze
Summer comes with the picking, shelling, and freezing peas
These times are wonderful long sunny days

But soon slowly fade, then the change in those leaves
Summer still has a lazy few days with comfy ease
Even if the pollen draws those hungry stinging bees
From the west and north come a much drier breeze
How thankful that we have those great peas
Soon fade those longer sunlit sunny days

No raking leaves in winter, only by firelight with ease and read
All those pesky bees gone now, on the currents winter's breeze brings flurries
Now dine on peas put away to eat on cold fruitless days of old man winter

Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2010

Details | Sestina |
Sunlight at an angle dancing through colored leaves
Cool nights to snuggle beneath the sheets; warm days of ease
Last of gardens harvest; goodbye to summer's bees
Joyful time fo harvest soon days a breeze
Pumpkins, winter squash, turnips, and peas
Food in bounty stored away for many days

Christmas will be upon us in just a very few days
The yard will have to be raked again and again to rid of leaves
Those garden vegetables will stored and put aside a cooking of peas
For right after Christmas comes New Years Day's fare with ease
The howling winds will blow and it won't be just a breeze
But now all the bugs have disappeared_ gone are the bees

On New Year"s Day we will have those delicious peas
We will float into spring with all ease
On the day we will not have to worry with yellow jackets or bees
As the nights grow longer and shorter the winter days
Those indominable buds show forth on the trees and soon leaves
March will come in bringing its strong breeze

Joy, oh!. joy and joy again with spring's green leaves
Just lying around in the hammock with all this ease
Newly hatched from hiding places comes those bees
Soft and gentle comes a blowing spring's warm breeze
In the newly planted garden_those early June peas
These wonderful times _joy of longer days

These times in life are just fun and a wonderful breeze
Then summer comes with the picking, shelling, and freezing peas
But there is one less chore now for there is no raking leaves
Out in the garden and in Pampas Grass thick with those bees
These times are wonderful long sunny days
Afternoons in the lazy hammock oh! what ease

How thankful that we have those great peas
Even if the pollen draws those hungry stinging bees
Summer still has lazy days with ease
Soon those longer sunlight hours sunny sunny days
Begins to slowly fade then the change in those leaves
From the west and north come a much drier breeze

Old man winter slips in with ease, now we'll eat those dry peas
Blow wind with swift breeze, time to kill all lingering bees
By th warm fire spend our days, soon snow covers all those leaves

Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2010

Details | Sestina |
Cross Species Awareness

Beneath a calm ocean, man watches a shark.
They are same in size, but one has advantage.
Man is wearing a wet suit and long swim fins.
Shark is naked and is not bearing its teeth.
Water passes silently through gills of stealthy predator.
Bubbles rise from apparatus of explorer.

A camera and lights fill hands of explorer.
Teeth and cunning fill front of shark.
Black tiger stripes and dark eyes of predator 
intensify beauty and exclaim an unrevealed advantage.
Locked behind its inquisitive nature are rows of sharp teeth.
It circles the diver, dipping and bending its fins.

A menacing fin on its back and long pointed side fins, 
the shark does not appear as clumsy as explorer.
A man clamps on to breathing device with his teeth, 
watching effortless movements of a curious shark.
There seems to be some wariness in the predator.
Its large dark eyes seem to measure any advantage.

Any threat to the sea’s occupant is from surface advantage.
The wary man’s feet rest on white sand trapped in fins.
He could kick and flap beneath waves, but is no predator.
He is either a very brave or very stupid explorer.
If the sea is a playground or battlefield it belongs to the shark.
If it decides, the king of the deep can bear its teeth.

It can open its gaping mouth and expose rows of teeth.
It can clamp on to soft flesh with an easy advantage.
Such things happen often in the life of a shark.
It swipes its tail side to side and climbs and dives with fins.
The only help for the diver is another explorer.
A spear gun or repellant may offend the predator.

There is not much comfort offending such a predator.
It will only find another place to sink its teeth.
It is a distracting thought for an underwater explorer,
to learn and gain knowledge under this creature’s advantage.
It may not speak; it doesn’t have hands, but does well with fins.
Ruling the depths, it is a majestic presence this shark.

A vicious predator with acute senses and sharp teeth, 
the shark patrols oceans riding currents with strong agile fins.
The explorer has the advantage of meeting it at peace.

If you are intrigued by this work read and review G. D. Master’s book, “Interpretations,” free in PDF format on Simply enter “gd master” or “interpretations” in the search bar of SmashWords to find it.

Copyright © Graphite Drug | Year Posted 2016

Details | Sestina |
Often after the fallen snow is swept, glory
Is found when the treading surface is clear.
A light dusting is a breeze to remove. For heavy slush I trade
My broom for a shovel. It is foolhardy to pretend
That things with bristles can glide
Between and expand the substrate/snow interface.

Between the air and my skin there is no interface
Even my coon skin cap only provides small glory
Reminding me that menthol shaving cream enhances the glide
Of my razor and the sting of the cold air, but also makes clear
My ambition to clear the snow away and not pretend
To scatter dandruff from the icy landscape. It seems I must trade

My alter ego of a cosmetologist for that of a cosmologist. Such a trade
Will enable me to outgrow this climate. Then my interface
Communication skills will improve so I won’t use silence to pretend
I am a solid, deep thinking woodsman and I can just enjoy the glory
Of making small talk about the weather, thus allowing me to clear 
My conscience about past regrets and glide

Through interpersonal interactions moment by moment. Ah! To glide
Like snow from the blade of a shovel, I wouldn’t trade
That social grace for 10,000 driveways clear
Of snow or ice or volcanic ash. Interface--
That common boundary, the transition from disgrace to glory
As I become a cosmologist and no longer pretend

That people are stupid zoo animals and hopefully not pretend
That I am a stupid zoo animal. Seasons of the year glide
Together and glide apart. Midwinter ice in all its glory
Is dangerous and fun. Will you trade
Your cramp-ons for ice skates? The seasonal interface
From spring to summer is never clear.

The same is true for the other seasons, let’s be clear
About that. I have stressed this before and will again; to pretend
Is to deny. Everything solitary has an interface
With something else and therefore is not solitary. To glide
Is to not experience friction. At some point you may want to trade
Slip for grip. Never bask in glory

Unearned. The web interface has clear
Flaws, don’t be ignorant. Glory may never pretend
To glide toward despair, but neither of those would I be willing to trade.

Copyright © james friske | Year Posted 2016

Details | Sestina |
For seven months now, this exercise
class at 8 a.m. Forty minutes. Tedious –
one small rip across the smooth fiber
of morning. I don’t want to be skinny,
just full of energy and run. No stress –
ready to tackle a maxed-out world.

But this workout’s a whole new world –
squats and shoulder presses, exercise
the abs, set the biceps aching. Stress
and then release – it’s just so tedious,
balancing myself among these skinny
ladies with their hair of thinning fiber –

they make jokes about breakfast fiber
and creating a heart-healthy world
out of bran. I’d give them the skinny
on multigrain breads, but exercise
takes away my breath. What’s tedious
as counting grams? A pound of stress

for every ounce of fat. Do birds stress
over diet, their daily intake of fiber?
And now hill-climbers – so tedious,
arms out of synch with legs. A world
of hills out there to climb. Exercise
my thirst for waterfalls, a skinny

slicing wind off the summit. Skinny
is as skinny swims. There is no stress
where there’s a will. Is it exercise
to conquer switchbacks by sheer fiber,
gain that peak-vista over the world?
Dip toes in a mountain lake – tedious?

Of course this fitness class is tedious.
How many years. An unnamed, skinny
muscle to push me way past my world,
my body. Tension and release, stress
and giving it up. Mind is its own fiber;
and it feeds, they say, on exercise.

If life is tedious, and full of stress,
I’ll skinny-dip in the flow and fiber
of a rushing world and call it exercise.

Copyright © Taylor Graham | Year Posted 2011

Details | Sestina |
In the teasing bouts of an early spring,
One must have patience to watch a flower bloom
From the municipal bud to the ripe decor
From which pursed pedals seek to open.
The contents of sweet pollen rise,
Sway, circle and drift like an aging spirit.

Watch closely; you may find a spirit
Splashing the waters from where life springs
Lively enough to make the ocean rise
Above old towns where civilizations bloomed.
Let your shields down; keep your hearts and minds open,
Permeating love with an earthly decoration.

Strive to laugh and decorate
The petty who set fire to spirits
With the same buoyancy that keeps our eyes open,
Veering from traps that devils spring.
Search beyond the vile bloom,
Taking pride in ashes that fall and rise.

I will soon see myself rise
High enough to cast my decorations
Far enough to make the deserts bloom.
I'll paint the coast blue to match my spirit
As winds grow warm with spring.
Hearts will sing and channels will be open.

Likewise, the pores of the Earth shall one day open.
As that molten lava rises,
Ancient fireballs shall spring,
Coating the ground with horrid decoration,
But we shall lie dormant as spirits
Awaiting new life's bloom.

Winds will cool and aid that bloom,
And, beautifully, we will open,
For every spirit
And, decoratively,

For everything that blooms, rises,
And every open heart is decorated,
And every loving spirit eventually springs.

Copyright © Mike Frampton | Year Posted 2010

Details | Sestina |
Lost in the green, leafy space,
Resting on his back out in the country,
The old hermit picks himself up and stands.
He begins the morning trek in the forest
Admiring the nature filled scenery—
The last retreat from the world.

Here peace abounds outside the world,
The man tries to create his own space,
Freed from the concerns of his country.
The trees form a barrier, a final stand
Prohibiting the city from his forest,
Preventing pollution of the scenery.  

But bits of the outside defile the scenery.
The sanctuary is attacked by the world
Who slowly chokes the living space— 
Unaware or uncaring of the leafy country—
With weapons of garbage, smog.  He stands,
Staring at a coke can in his forest.

It stands out on the grassy forest
Floor.  It ruins the life-filled scenery.
Almost acting as a message from the world,
Telling the hermit this isn’t his space.  
A reminder that they own the country,
And out of a whim he is allowed to stand,

He is given the privilege to stand, 
To admire, to enjoy the nature made forest
Whose beauty can be erased from the scenery,
Leaving only overturned land for the world, 
Ready to defile the hermit's sacred space
And strip the trees off the country.

The old hermit cries in this country, 
Among the trees, the animals, he stands.
Beneath the sky, above the earthy forest
He prays.  Since childhood this scenery
Stood out.  As a kid he’d leave the world,
Finding a solace in this private space.  

But now the hermit’s leafy forest in the country,
The only natural space left on the concrete world,
Is threatened.  Unless he stands up for the scenery.  

Copyright © Yawara Ng | Year Posted 2008

Details | Sestina |
With day full of sleep, moon falls in the river.
Its beams danced on water with shadows of trees
to a beat of rhythm from wind till it died 
and buried in music of quietness of night. 
With perfume of flowers giving weight to air
cool of dark beauty night’s peace granted prayer.

Cathedral as reverent as echoed Lords prayer
as gentle as songs by frogs from the stream.
Harmony hanging in a gemstone sharp air,
with touch of sadness as dim sparklers in tyrees
while chirping of crickets brings richness to night
This will be the hour which wretchedness died.

The stars in the heaven pronounces day's death,
still speaks of the coming of fresh morning prayer
as glorious moon-glow reigns above night
while weak light reflects off bountiful river
twinkling in beams through branches of trees,
gives a roar of stillness through paper thin air.

The sky and the dark and the shadows of air
The river, moon and the sun as it died.
As leaves slowly descend from generous trees.
An answer it seems to nights granted prayers
it all means little to approaching rivers
which has born witness of deceit of the night.

So quick in the darkness will charge storms of night?
Critical lighting strikes in tranquilized air
heaved by the wind once magnanimous river
thunder and rain, wind and foreboding of dead 
comes terror and fear and murmuring prayers
amongst shacking of limbs and bowing of trees.

Fierce is the storm and with uprooting of trees
as wind rips and cries through cover of darkness.
All creatures will witness the dark Devil’s prayer
as thunder splits atoms of wild burdened air.
The night  cannot sleep till storm’s ferry dies
and silence of night returns to the rivers.

Storms of the night and night’s peace granted prayer.
Shadows of trees and moonbeams on the river 
but rising of sun will bring death to night’s air.

Copyright © Mike Samford | Year Posted 2007

Details | Sestina |
Huddled among massive rocks,
at the bottom of a barren cliff,
breathing in the strongest aroma of jasmines,
watching hordes of seagulls hover over an abandoned ship;
pensively and attentively spending peaceful times by calm river,
geese see me and slowly approach me to share some of this enthralling wander!

The flow of the river is constantly intriguing,
sometimes slow, other times rushing in the manner of a surge,
making the passing barges resemble timber floating
to their unknown destination, unless the currents change
and they will be crashing on the sandy blanks to dry out and decay;
the same fate awaits the fowls when their bodies become old and die!

Rare beauty I ravishingly behold while my attention is not swayed,
the thickness of the trees won't let the eyes penetrate their wilderness beyond,
only the restless ravens know their habitat and venture themselves in those woods;
I am groped by their mystery, but I dare not enter into the untamed animal' world,
as the woodpeckers continue making their noises to scare away any possible predators...
while moans of creatures are heard: are they attacked by wild dogs, or ferocious wolves?  

The glow of the descending sun diminishes and a chill pervades my body,
my Windbreaker is the perfect attire to wear, and not make me feel the breeze's coolness;
the darker colors appearing above give indication of the arrival of a spectacular sunset,
those hues change brightness, and somehow seem to vanish as clouds impose their treat...
a storm wind coming, or is nature imitating our human nature to take control of destiny,
to spoil my peaceful times by this calm river...shouldn't I be angered by their hostility?  
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009

Details | Sestina |
Past the grain fields clanks the old train,
and it goes beyond the fertile valley;
then it vanishes amid the swaying hills,
not too far from the massive castle
built by the Normans, and it's pelted by rain,
washing the pollen off the golden yarrows.

I saw many wild kids playing with the yarrows,
laughing and hurling them at the passing train;
these rascals weren't intimidated by the rain
as the scorching sun reappeared in the valley...
reaching the steaming walls of the massive castle,
all robins were happy to take flight over the hills.

Somehow the lilacs survived on the eastern hills,
and quick relief eased the discontented appearance of the yarrows,
their drooping stems struggle to stand erect by the stately castle
only to be brought back to life by the whistling train;
but many were taken away by the flood straight to the valley...
they were too feeble to challenge the fury of the rain. 

Some occasianal sunray invited the quails to defy the rain,
as if harmony had a chance to return to the misty hills;
and they fluttered their wet wings and departed from the valley.
By instinct, throngs of butterflies flocked to the joyful yarrows;
people returning from the big city saw that spectacle from the train,
dreaming of a quiter past life inside the protective walls of the castle.

Falcons were the quickest and safest messangers of the castle,
they carried letters in their strong beaks despite of the rain;
and they never were distracted by anything, but they were faster than a train...
the journey was long...many days not soaring over the andulating hills,
or watching the dames of many charms picking up lovely yarrows;
and those gentry faces missed their adored falcons gone to the remote valley.  

The early-risers, peasants with callous hands, left the semi-dark valley;
and climbing the rocky slopes abundant with olive groves that led to the castle,
and walking they captured meadows swarming with awakening, gleeful yarrows...
remembering how sad and miserable they were being soaked by the pouring rain!
They sought shelter, but no tree stretched their brenches like they protected the hills; 
oh, they didn't mind the whistling and the clink-clank of the early morning train! 

Valley subsidized to darkness, finally clears of the boring rain;
castle guarded by the falcons disappears in the tenebrous hills...
yarrows fall asleep and cannot hear the whistle the distant train.

Entered in Jared Pickett's contest, " The Sestina "


Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2010

Details | Sestina |
All the strawberry's and moss rose's bushes
are slowing budding along the dusty bridle paths,
and as the husky New York cowboys pull down their hats,
they don't seem to excite their trotting horses;
and I am slower than they are...dragging my aching feet
to barren fields, where yesterday's lovers loved to dream!

And as the dormant forest awaits spring,
below the rain-soaked hill, some trees dingle from it's corroded cliffs
that are thickly covered with maroon leaves;
but the innocuous squirrels, unaware, scare away the wandering robin
that is too lonely and looks for sign of existence,
and my observation is a note worthy one by the rhythm of his wings!

My memorable childhood was spent observing the diverse seasons,
and the spectacular colors that bewildered me...enhancing their significance,
and whoever saw that child with a rosy face and short, curly hair:
must have thought to have seen a cherub with the softest wings,
who never tired of discovering new flowers and trees;
jotting down every detail in his handy notebook, to create words with flair! 

Rest under the pale sky, tired man and write your drama;
your strength has diminished as sunsets ultimately do;
you have seen the dawn with its intense light and a bright star, too:
that star which always illuminated your path and spirit!
Now, don't cease to exist and vanish like a dark star...
peacefully sleep, as the dormant forest awaits spring!

Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009

Details | Sestina |
I ask for nothing,
just relying on Providence;
surprisingly I will experience
an enriching event
that fate has sent...
does anybody wonder why I sing?

I age, and furthermore I feel younger;
wrinkles appear to attest their reminder
that my troubles are of another sort,
and despite more unpleasant occurrences confirming my tort:
these upheavals are raging storms that will soon pass,
and this phase is the ultimate test!

Destiny, unfold this enriching event,
and usher in an age of contentment;
the vitality of these years don't reflect fragility:
resolute and strong, hopeful and diligent...
I can face any hurdle and defy tragedy,
and the hardest challenge is finding trust!  

An enriching event was predicted in my natal chart  
and astrologers are putting much effort in their research,
to assure me that a better tomorrow is coming;
and should I place my total trust in them,
and catch a rare glimpse and be content...
but Who has given me a last chance at living?

I could never be guided by the unpredictable stars,
what I am amazed about them:  is their mysterious glimmer,
but fortune and wealth is the damnation of the sinner,
of that one cursing God for all the plagues and sorrows
inflicted upon punish them for all that was taken without honor
and appreciation;  and wouldn't they envy the one opening the golden door?

My harvest is finally ripe, and spacious fields offer their abundant fruits,
every bird has a more sonorous song to make me feel vibrantly alive:
o larks and nightingales, let your joyful ode reach the Heavens above!
My blessings have been too numerous to be counted and this joy exalts 
Him with a gratefulness that is equal to every breath I inhale and exhale;
when peace blends with silence:  a realistic Heaven is an enriching event!

Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009

Details | Sestina |
A cherub with a rosy face
and plenty of curly hair
that the breeze loved to lull,
more than the daises so fair;
and that was the closest comparison...
to the beautiful child he once was!

The youngest dreamer ever to be born
with eyes as bright and lively as stars,
such were his to take imagination
beyond every possible dimension;
and such was the closest comparison...
to see himself as the beautiful child he once was!

He grew up too fast with an instinct
that was immensely blessed;  so keen,
privileged and gallant seemed that fearless
kid not to be able to earn one's keep,
to make perfection the closest comparison...
to the beautiful child he once was!

The shady paths covered by the swanky pine trees,
were as dusty as any country road which needed rain,
and it came without ever wishing for it;  and he welcomed 
it by getting wet, to lose himself in its gentle peace;
and what other closest comparison would he have made?...
If not that of the beautiful child he once was without worry and pain!   

Entered in Deborah Guzzi's poetry contest

Copyright 2009  by Andrew Crisci

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009

Details | Sestina |

MY SECRET RIVER ~~~~~~~~~~ Its source some distance from its end, highlands. A little trickle meanders a mile. Pure, full of many forms of life, no fish! Now babbles over rocky ground, the brook, widening, now with banks, sticklebacks, the fish. Water still pure, a stream has formed, o joy. Its banks not high, festooned with flowers, joy. Now some miles from its source in the highlands. A sunny summers day, the stream with fish, high banks, kingfishers nesting every mile. Faintly, on calm days, hark the babbling brook. Approaching river size, otters swim with fish. Still growing, flowing fast, the herons fish. Through wonderland, glades and glens, total joy! From a trickle to sticklebacks, a brook. The stream now some ten miles from the highlands, river now formed, splendour, mile after mile! Rapids, mini falls, salmon, what a fish! Aquatic life amazing, birds and fish. Anglers banned, this river no strife for fish! A wildlife sanctuary, a smile a mile, how I wish wildlife could smile their joy. Walked its length, the sweet call of the highlands. Several miles upstream, distant is the brook. Its source a memory, likewise the brook. The stickleback such a dainty, cute fish, must move downstream, cold the winter highlands. All memories for me, the birds and the fish! Fishing with just a worm, much childhood joy. Frail now, lucky if I can walk a mile. Collect smiles in my camera, mile on mile. My favourite smile, the babbling tiny brook, gurgling, rapping, o so full of joy. Then I remember, salmon, what a fish, its leaping rapids, such power in a fish. Tonight again I'll dream the highlands. The highlands, many secret trickle mile, some fish were found in the cool babbling brook. The fish found downstream o what pure joy

Copyright © Mick Talbot | Year Posted 2018

Details | Sestina |
My irrepressible awe is clearly seen
in the colors of the seasons,
when all becomes veneration,
at the sight of every superb constellation,
which stands above me like Heaven,
to turn my hallelujahs into prayers...

My irrepressible awe is felt in the spring' crisp morning air,
watching light advance and dapple the entire sky
with a golden shade, nothing to envy any gold so pure; 
and on the pointy leaves of the pines,
it shimmers like the rarest jewels...
and wouldn't an unconsoled soul come here to die?

My irrepressible awe is expressed in the most thrilling ways,
observing the wide wings of the eagles
flap once and depart from earth in throngs
for a journey, which will last for many days;
and shouldn't they find their new home,
they will return, as shallows do, only to lament snow...     

My irrepressible awe is shared by a spirit filled with emotion,
and wouldn't all senses elate me for this declared devotion?
What lies before me is a possession too concrete,
like the perennial Firmament so awesome and infinite;
this marvelous planet I tread on, is certainly mine
and it couldn't have been given to me without a set price... 

Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009