Long Nature seasons Poems
Long Nature seasons Poems. Below are the most popular long Nature seasons by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Nature seasons poems by poem length and keyword.
Two rust-red tubes running up the hillside,
by the wood's edge, hidden just in the trees,
they have water, and compressed air inside,
pumped up the mountain to hydrants steely.
Hoses conduct it to tall silver tubes,
snow guns that spray the white stuff on the trail,
coating brown grasses, hiding them from view,
building tall piles that some call snow-whales.
The groomers will come and flatten them out,
leave corduroy patterns on the long slope,
the skiers will come and race on a cloud,
they don’t like to wait when winter is slow.
One must be consistent in a business,
take five Mother Nature, we have got this.
Demise of Summer crushed by time
Impatient branches bare themselves
Stilled by awareness of impermanence
Crispy leaf meets mates' disintegration
Decay of softening debris feeds furthering
Intact stem faithfully departs its life source
Slippery black moulder begins project
Culminated rotting holds promise
Discarded friends have served dutifully
Instilled with sturdy knowledge of tenure
Shading resplendant trembling team offers
Cosy habitat for harbouring creatures
Drifting ruin accepts wild's arrival
Imminent Winter hurls vehemence
Shifted season defeats the previous
Compulsed assets begin next task
Autumn drives Spring, broken by slowing
Resplendent hues shake in conversation
Due relinquish brings their descendants
26th July 2020 Free Verse
Written for Contest:
Pick A Title 20 Vol 3
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
My River Birch has swelling buds
First signs of coming spring
So tiny and so delicate
With bright red fuzzy rings
A few of last years cones, dark brown,
Through lush green needles, peek,
At singing birds in camoflage
A game of hide and seek
The daffodils have yet to bloom
Their countdown has begun
Green sprouts are turning yellow
As they reach toward the sun
Sweet aromatic fragrance
Of the fresh cut lavender
Explodes and permeates the air
Spring's sweet ambassador.
A southern breeze, soft and warm
Like breath, a silent sage
It's nature's way of telling me
It's time to turn a page.
by Daniel Turner
Slowly and gently fall unfurls its golden splendor
The flowering glory of summer fades away
The September breezes whisper goodbye to warmer sunny days
Fog hangs deep in the valleys laden with the breath of frost
Bounteous fields bathed in molten gold, gleam in pale sunlight beams
The land is etched with touches of autumns crimson blush
Each tender falling leaf is but a tear shed by September’s muse
A kaleidoscope of color her tear stained ode to summer’s end
Autumn winds stripped barren all the trees,
As the icy Winter Queen stepped up her savage siege,
With cold unblinking eyes, on calculated cue,
She told Mother Nature precisely what to do-
“Still the song of birds that sing,
Keep them hushed ‘til early spring,
Let thunder roar to give earth warning,
Fierce storms may strike each morning,
Have raindrops fall both day and night,
Cast lightning out with spectacular light,
Give presentation of a blanket of snow,
Make icicles glisten with shimmering glow”
The Winter Queen then looked upon all her kingdom's lands.
Content that Mother Nature, had completed her demands,
Her melting tears then spilt, upon the thawing snow,
Her reign for now was over, reluctantly she'd go-
Vive la différence!
Poets will sonnet and sonnets will sing
As we trudge through winter while yearning for spring
Long ago at a party where Coasters did say
"I could never live in a place so common and gray"
But they didn't, so "couldn't" is something they say
Because their imagination's what's gray
Their vision is dimmed by mountainous boundaries
Belittling the work of the farms and the foundries
Where the salt of the earth in industrious nature
Fashions the birth and the wealth of the nature
Not recognizing all has a place in creation
And difference made wealthy and healthy the nation
If ev'ryone lived in the same clime, time, and place
Boring and snoring would claim ev'ry face
And poets would sleep through the sonnets unsung
And yawns would be what would fill up ev'ry lung
The moon is a sickle of ivory white,
Hanging low o'er the tassels of silk.
The corn stalks shiver in the cool of the night,
In a fog that is thick as the milk.
"Old friend," breathes the row with a rustle of green,
"Do you grow weary of standing so still?
With your button-eye stare and your posture so lean,
On the brow of this lonely, dark hill?"
The scarecrow creaks on his timbered spine,
With a sigh made of sawdust and grain.
"I watch for the shadow, the feather, the line,
And the scent of the gathering rain.
My coat is a rag that the north wind has torn,
And my heart is a bundle of hay;
But I live for the song of the ripening corn,
At the end of a long, dusty day."
"We feel the crows landing," the field softy moans,
"The pinch of the beak on the ear.
We tremble deep down in our chlorophyll zones,
Whenever the black wings are near.
But you are the giant, the tattered and tall,
With your arms stretching wide to the sky;
You catch the first chill of the winterly squall,
With a wink of your glass-beaded eye."
"I am but a ghost," the straw-man replies,
"A hollow man stitched by a hand.
But I love the gold light as the summer sun dies,
And the way that you root in the sand.
I’ll stand through the frost and the bite of the gale,
To keep every kernel from harm;
Though my paint may be chipped and my burlap grow pale,
I am the soul of the farm."
The wind dies away to a murmur of sleep,
As the stars turn silver and blue.
The secrets of seasons are hers now to keep,
And his to protect and see through.
A nod of the tassel, a sway of the sleeve,
In the quiet where shadows are spun;
Two sentinels waiting for morning’s reprieve,
Beneath the pale gaze of the sun.
Incessant straight line winds, assail us from the East
and as all good sailors know, are good for neither Man nor Beast
The winds that are visiting us, like unwanted visitors from afar
Stay with us, both day and night, their unwelcome presence never hidden
It has one wishing for them to leave. wishing upon Winter's Northern star.
Under forty below, that's what the instruments say
I can feel the temperature drop as on cue by the hour
All panes of glass are well chilled from where I stand
They appear as December's foggy skies, as though from an icy shower.
The power lines outside dance and howl and sway
Crackling as the ice along them shatters in dismay
The shelter struggles to grip them ever tighter still
The house stands firm to keep the winds at bay
Shutters chatter as the winds struggle to them undress.
The raging straight line winds go on and on
A kitchen woodstove holds a crackling relief
to wage its wintery battle with the season
its ongoing struggle to give off more heat
than the wintery cold drafts that the winds force in.
And late in the evening I put my head down to rest
On one of my grandmother's quilts, one of her best
I can hear the winds still howling, as wolves to the moon
As I drift toward my dreamland, my wish is for Spring to come soon.
Copyright Christine A Kysely December 12, 2010
(c) Copyright 2010 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved
winter has sighed its last.
everything old is new
as heaven cries with joy.
bird in the trees all sing
and butterfiles are out
floating about carefree.
it's time to rejoice!
as spring has arrived;
earth is young again.
roses will bloom, thanks...
to april showers.
hello, green leaves;
refreshing whiff
of petrichor
hip! hip! hurray!
season of
rebirth is
upon us.
a feast
for the...
eyes.
Spring Diminished Hexaverse Contest Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Caren Krutsinger
Date written: 03/02/2021
Have you ever taken the time to watch rain fall in winter?
See the beautiful symmetry of it; listen to the gentle splash?
Watch the lacy curtain of moisture against the background of winter
darkened trees.
Drops, like shiny gems, are clinging to graceful branches.
Others, growing in size until they are too heavy to hold on any longer, run down my
windshield; their path erratic and wiggly.
There is so much beauty in Nature, even on the grayest day.
It is in the peaceful pitter-patter of the descending rain.
In the gentle ripple that appears as it enters a puddle.
And in the heavy, leaden and mighty clouds that travel our wonderful world.