Best Nature Poets Poems
When farthest fields of tall
grasses are dry and harshly mown.
Then, wildflowers to the wind fall
where beauty had once shown.
Wren and robin in mourning call
with songs of somber tone.
Men who are proud at nightfall,
laugh in haughty baritone.
Penning truths, poets wrap shawls
over spirits who moan.
Again, through the season’s squall,
a poet cries alone.
Glen of glowing words comfort all
on path from birth to stone.
Written 6/30/20
Contest - Triple Rhyme
Sponsor - Beth Evans
When the river runs dry
When the river runs dry, tears of sorrow fill this poets eyes
The words just won't flow, as the blank page clearly shows
All life dries up as ideas and thoughts they get torn in two
All around us can see it and sense it they feel the sorrow too
For what is life without freedom of thought and it's expression?
All poets like their words to be heard and read without exception
Our Maker well knows our needs, knows us better than ourselves
When the river runs dry, He gives us clean waters found in his well
When we go to him and drink deeply of his fresh waters of truth
Our soul and spirit are invigorated renewed like the days of our youth
Our prayers are answered as copious tears shower down from on high
We drink it all in till we're dripping wet, that's when we understand why
When we rely on ourselves our own thinking from our imperfect minds
That's when there's trouble, the page is blank and so the river runs dry.
John Derek Hamilton
April 17,2016
a poetic heart ~
isolated and unique
as a Baikal Dzen
2 January 2021
________________________________________________________
BAIKAL DZEN/ZEN
The rings are caused by warm, circular currents of water under the ice, called eddies. The eddies' strong currents melt the ice at the edge, but weaker ones keep the centre frozen.
Lake Baikal in Serbia, Russia, is the deepest freshwater lake on earth. Another phenomenon is the quantity of methane gas emissions -- the bubbles make for some stunning photo shoots.
Apples red, apples round.
Apples frozen on the ground.
Yellow-mellow apples,
many speckled, bruised and brown.
Henry ate them
when he went wooding.
Said they tasted like apple pudding.
" I wandered lonely as a cloud "
~William Wordsworth ~
Shook away by solemn persuasive wind,
I felt as though fallen from my splendor;
Leaves of red, yellow, green and every kind,
Seemed, yet, showing me fraternal ardor;
Ash, maple, aspen, alder and cherry,
All as though in ninth clouds; aerie Fairy...!
Lonely butterfly that hovers around,
Snail that strolls like a toddler on green grass;
The sun marching like Zeus fiery gold crowned,
Streams gleaming luminous like crystal glass;
These are sojourners on this earth transient,
Like me tents set in scenes so ambient...!
Like wavelets in gentle breeze I ripple,
Blown by trade winds newer lands I explore;
Weather transitions my movements cripple,
Zeal and zest, yet, like child, in me does soar;
Lilies, Croton and asters bid goodbye,
Figs, plums, pears and peaches in surprise, sigh...!
In dark, constellations fashion-parade,
Aries, Virgos and Pisces like sprites fly;
Moon, like cut-silver-cake in shade gets fade,
Stars, like brides in diamond rings, wry in shy;
Love, to forlorn fall-leaves, the nature shows,
Loneliness has its joys; a poet knows…!
20 September 2022
I Wandered Lonely As --- Challenge Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Natasha L Scragg
Syllables checked in How-many-syllables
He watches and wait,
the prey unaware of his gaze
But he hungers no longer for flesh
He chases after the spirit of the wind ...
White Wolf in the snow blend,
and alongside him is D. White his friend
White by White,
two pillars of snow frost
Unmelted friendship
Together in the winter forest,
they observe the evergreens forever rising
And with boundless joy,
they pursue the spirit of the wind again
White Wolf leaping ...
airborne in ecstasy
D. White leaping high as well
Poet friends of the forests, on the muse chase together,
following the spirit of the poets trail
A tribute to my two talented beloved poet friends,
White Wolf and Darren White
Why should I add another word
To words already spoke and heard.
Because to say, "The morning web was hung with light."
Is not to say,
"A spider gathered jewels today."
‘Water’ seems a fitting title
of this rhyme on something vital
for the beings we take care of
and the others we’re aware of.
Life on Earth depends on water,
whether human or sea otter,
fish or fowl, whatever creatures
having some subsistence features.
Water may have been existent
in archaic ages distant
long before we tend to think—
even water that we drink.
Yet when in our galactic history
it was formed has been a mystery…
The researchers have debated
as to if it could be stated
that this liquid can be dated
back to when it’s been related
there was a disk of gas and dust
and molecules that were a must
for water that originated
when our ‘system’ was created
(namely, ‘solar’, where we’re fated)…
Or might it be more antiquated?!
Could we trace to outer space
the genesis that took place
of the water in our glass?
If indeed this came to pass,
it would open up new queries,
not to mention E.T. theories…
But that’s within the jurisdiction
of those who compose science fiction.
Many scientists have avowed
that from the Sun’s parental cloud
of interstellar dust and gas,
from which our star derived its mass,
water, well, to be precise,
water in the form of ice
was inherited there and then,
in that olden where and when…
Some astronomers theorize
that what we may not realize
is up to half the H2O
within the oceans that we know
right here on Planet Earth could be,
yes, older than the Sun we see
illuminating from on high,
in daylight’s path across the sky,
our frets and frolics down below,
where heedlessly we come and go…
Water and life go hand in hand,
from briny deep to wooded land.
In the mariner’s rhyming tale,
all the winds at sea did fail,
and the sailors lives were lost—
the idle ship was merely tossed
as if on a painted ocean,
painted ship, devoid of motion.
There was water ‘every where’,
Coleridge says, except that there
was none to quench their parching thirst;
so the voyage seemed doubly cursed.
Water is such precious stuff!
Do we value it enough?
Oh, may there never come a time
(as in that famous rhyming rime)
when as to water here on Earth—
where mortals meet their death and birth—
we too will ever need to think
that there is not a drop to drink!
~ Harley White
I've tried the moon titled in air
Above a hazy tree-and-farmhouse cluster
As you might try a jewel in your hair
She sat quietly deaf to the river
Shadows line along the old rocking chair
Rippling chords and running deep
Hidden in the darkness and shiver
Fiddling crickets with a thunderous clatter
I push forward these bones of stone
Amongst a small opening and unfold toward home
*****
I've tried the moon titled in air
Above a hazy tree-and-farmhouse cluster
As you might try a jewel in your hair.
(Robert Frost)
For the Homage contest
Frosty takes his leave
melting snow on the hillside
Spring has her warm ways
Old-fashioned beauty kissed by morning dew,
In summer-rain her dreams reflect the sun,
And poets ponder magic she can do,
As worldly things the mind must surely shun,
Her thorns shall fight the heart that isn’t true,
Yet bring her tender kiss to love begun,
To poets gazing on her blooming blush,
She sings harmony in a whispered hush.
Form: Ottava Rima
Raindrops falling on windowpane
cloudy grey sky with lightning vein
Upon close look, a lilac hue
and tiny pockets found of blue
Rainy days tempt poets to write
of roses in bloom, stars at night;
of golden leaves as Autumn fades,
or shadows found in dappled shades
Dawn that breaks with pure golden skies,
adds crimson touch as a surprise.
deepened sunset paints scarlet hues,
touch of iris in purple-blues.
Nature's watercolor pages
filled with poems for the ages--
words that poets find to capture
nature's most glorious rapture.
Nature
April 1, 2022
form L-LAY New Poetry Contest
by Constance La France
How Many Syllables.com
FIRST PLACE!
works like a cute bee
to produce the pure honey
for you sure and me
poetic licence... the freedom of the pen...
to transcribe what... where... why and when...
dancing daffodils in tune with spring...
tiny bluebells... o we could hear them ring...
spring or summer dawn... or be it eve...
the joy of both can oft stress relieve...
springtime the summertimes overture...
ripening life... by fall some will mature...
floral fruits... as mother nature planned...
sustaining life now ain't that grand...
sustenance for many forms of life...
by some perceived as mortal strife...
natural life... as poets often transcribe...
we all eat with a passion just to stay alive...
Sonnet Poetry Contest sponsored by John Hamilton
2/6/18
Wordsmithing and living
are like communicating and loving
through a camera lens
when you could just lay down your language-camera,
to step into face-to-face space,
rather than stepping aside from present co-arising,
co-relational empathic moments of opportunity
and co-gravitating issues,
to choose instead to speak
sing
dance ex-cathedra
In what is an increasingly accessible
rhetorical climate moment,
but decreasingly LeftBrain reading
writing
rithmatic tic tic
emptying-out
echo-palace for noble and graceful
and unpaid poets
Our sageconomist gods
and musecologist goddesses
with their anthroprivileged sacred meanings
and mundane busyness purposes,
to chat amongst our win/win selves.
Only nature photographers
and soulful philosophers
take muses seriously
as performance artists;
not just under-commodified
and over-domesticated
giants of useless
unentitled industry.
Sacred ecology smithing
and synergetic economizing
are co-nutritional communication and deep life-loving
through bicamerally reiterative lenses
of Left Interior Ego Landscape
ecohosted by Elder Right Exterior MusEcology Landscape,
therapy for regenerative planning and development.
In EarthParadise
poets rule Interior Ego Reigns
while permacultural ecotherapists co-evolve governance
of Exterior CoOperative EcoClimates,
politically egalitarian
as economically co-op driven,
ecosystemic space/time synergy
here/now win/win balancing
confluently elational body/mind
neurosystemic energy;
learning to speak in mindful face to face
paced time '
and algae-surfing seaside rhythms.
Writing without experience,
outside experience,
beyond and abstracted from context contenting experience,
already takes God's active-verbal name
in panentheistic vain
pursuits of beautifully affordable correctness,
omitting primal wild
dipolar dialectic revolutions,
complex fractal-spiral regenerative icons,
metasystems of time's unfolding reformation
with fertile refolding eco-function,
flowing back to Golden Elixir,
Rule,
reproportioning Ego/Eco-Balance
face to face
Here in Now
like flowing river water identities
in salt surfing seasons
Of Earth empowering deep ego energy
in synergetic Sun's wide
wild museco enlightenment.