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#nature poetry
dieversa · 2 days
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“Her green mind made the world around her green.”
Wallace Stevens, De la simple existencia: Antología Poética
🌱🌿🍃
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crystalclaire · 2 days
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keep going into the world, bird,
startle the sad spring air with the whirring of your wings
“Bird Bound for a Good World” by Ada Limón
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kharacore · 1 year
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jenny holzer
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cryptonature · 1 month
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It's finally time! I've been excited to post about this FOREVER. Here is the cover for my new memoir about loving nature and struggling with depression. I'm very proud of this book and I adore this cover.
Artist: Tuesday Riddell
(Visit the link in my bio for more info.)
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edwardian-masquerade · 3 months
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"If roses could talk, they would not boast of their beauty, because they know that they have always been beautiful."
-Michael Bassey Johnson, Song of a Nature Lover
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almostsomewheremaybe · 5 months
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What did the olive trees do?
today they burned down every last tree.
the trees that loved the people and gave them olives to eat, shade to rest, and leaves to listen to their stories.
the trees that told the wind about the people, and the wind who told every hill and valley, who told the river and the sea about the people the trees so loved.
the trees knew it was the people who gave them life, who planted them and watered them and protected them for centuries. the people who had loved them first. the trees knew this deep in their roots.
today they came with weapons and fire and terror to kill the people. after the people, they burned the trees alive.
the trees did not scream as they burned. after they watched the people die, they were heartbroken and preferred to rejoin them as martyrs hereafter.
an old man came upon the smoking fields. he discovered their charred remains and cried,
“they burned them! but why? what was their crime? what did the olive trees do?”
they hid the people’s secrets in their trunks, and stored their memories in roots underground. they gave the people strength to fight, and even when the people were gone, they became symbols of resistance.
this is what the olive trees did; they loved the people. they loved the people, and they died for it.
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mylittletankaworld · 2 months
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among boring talks endless repetitive tasks why are only you, like small glimpses among clouds, able to brighten my day?
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hearthspeaker · 1 year
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bardicspirit · 6 months
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For here I lay among the sage,
With the bones of spirits I yearn to meet.
Internal weaving of blossom and blood,
As they grant safe passage to my eternal sleep.
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think-through-pen · 4 months
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Flower Blooming
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I fain would ask the earth for its love
that sprouts from soils in tender buds,
and sit beside and look above
and wait for them to spring from muds.
What ecstasy could rival this
than waiting for the bud in bliss!
Alert your eyes and do not miss
the flower blooms with morning kiss!
I wish to soak my heart in sorrow,
for flowers will wilt tomorrow;
surely, all my dreams will fade
and dissolve in that tree's shade.
A balance of life and death there is,
and truth resides in nature's law.
A life becomes 'was', another 'is'
Is not it beauty that I saw?
But I can see the petals peep
from their robes, and slowly keep
my heart and eyes laid upon
the yawning of the flowers born.
The sun too blooms from the sea,
altering its robes with time.
The beauty that we find is we,
for we see the truth sublime.
My Blooms: @most-ment @jordynhaiku @hauntedandwholesome @distilledmelancholies @somebodyssongbird @sweetwarmcookies16 @sunlovemoon @vixen1012 @yumiraaa @universetalkz @aaronawbra
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sageandscorpiongrass · 8 months
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I need to start a garden!
Nature and its many meanings.
The Garden, Andrew Marvell | What I Would Like to Grow in My Garden, Katherine Riegel | The Seed-Shop, Muriel Stuart | Irises, Vincent van Gough | Oom Sha La La, Haley Heynderickx | New Feet Within My Garden Go, Emily Dickinson | The Diary of Anaïs Nin (Vol. IV), Anaïs Nin | Spring At Last, Hanne Lore Koehler | The Way Through The Woods, Rudyard Kipling | Garden, Eric Tran | To: Myself In Colorado, Everybody’s Worried About Owen | What is Blooming, Debra Yvonne Mathis | The Eye in the Forest, Photographer Unknown | Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers, Elizabeth Barrett Browning | The Wild Iris, Louise Glück | Overgrown Garden, Beetlebug | The Table in the Sun in the Garden, Henri Le Sidaner | Gardens There Were, Leslie Nelson Jennings | On the Pulse of Morning, Maya Angelou | Covered Bridge Park, Ryan Radke | I Worried, Mary Oliver | Oom Sha La La, Haley Heynderickx
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gerrbarrkmania17 · 18 days
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I felt the wind touch my skin earlier. It was gentle and light, the sensation pleasant.
I felt it after I leaned forward to touch a tree’s bark. The surface cracked, peeling, and leaving me curious. I had seen this tree many times, but today was when I finally decided to feel the texture.
I suppose the wind spirit got curious, or just wanted to return the favour.
I ran my fingers across the bark’s surface, careful not to scrape or break anything, as not my right to destroy what I aim to understand.
I breathed in, thankful for the wind in my lungs and the opportunity to experience something new, in my life of suburban repetition.
Wind blows with you, not through or past you. Energetic connection established as the breeze caresses you.
I want touch. I want to be wanted. I want to want and want I will as I crave.
The wind spirit said “hi” to me today. I breathed out, wondering if this is even worth it, if anything I do matters.
And the wind answered back, “Isn’t the thought a reason to continue?”
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“One Heart” by Li-Young Lee
Look at the birds. Even flying is born
out of nothing. The first sky is inside you, open
at either end of day. The work of wings was always freedom, fastening one heart to every fallen thing.
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cryptonature · 9 months
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My son thinks he’s seeing lightning bugs
for the first time.
He’s only four and doesn’t remember last July.
“Don’t try to grab them,” I say.
“Hold your hand like this.”
We stand by the cemetery fence.
I show him how to raise his palm up beneath them,
a pink platform floating up through the dark.
“These are big dipper fireflies. They dip. They swoop.”
I draw a “J” in the air.
“So, we catch them from below.”
He lands one, too hard, and laughs.
“Gentle. Don’t grab. Just watch.”
The little beetle turns a half circle and flies off.
“Can I keep one?”
“No. We don’t keep. We only visit.”
Out across the cemetery,
they are shining green and yellow on the graves.
We are growing old.
The Earth.
The nation.
The village of ghosts I call myself.
“Do they sting or bite, Dada?”
“No, sweetheart.”
Not in the way you mean.
Not in the way you mean.
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lionofchaeronea · 6 months
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Some poetry for your Monday. This was ostensibly inspired by an IG prompt "bonfire smoke," although it pretty quickly left the prompt behind. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it.
SACRAMENTS
Your midwife was A bonfire's flame. Thunder named you With its name.
Baptized by A double priest (Waves on the shore, Sun in the east),
To follow where The wolf may lead Is your one And only creed,
Your catechism Is the cry Of hawks descending From the sky.
When you die Black soil will take you, Countless creatures Will unmake you--
Chilly dew Upon your face The only unction In that place.
To such a one, A golden ring Would be a feeble, Foolish thing:
We'll wed, therefore, With fingers bare, Our notaries The earth and air.
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cosmicshitz · 2 months
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“One time he asked why I felt the need to dress up for a hike, so I told him: The forest is my church, and we don’t wear jeans to Sunday service.”
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