Last Commented Nature Poems (1,977)

WHO will go drive with Fergus now,
And pierce the deep wood's woven shade,
And dance upon the level shore?
Young man ,lift up your russet brow,
And lift your tender eyelids,maid,
And brood on hopes and fear no more.
And no more turn aside and brood
Upon love's bitter mystery;
For Fergus rules the brazen cars,
And rules the shadows of the wood,
And the white breast of the dim sea
And all dishevelled wandering stars.




To Miss.JEANIEMAC : )

Let's go to drive together in the car of Fergus!!! ; )
Thank you for the comment : )
lisa

For your height has weighed down on you.
For your branches held a beautiful
place up in the sky.
The wind ripped you from where
you were as if to pull life
out of your roots.
Your girth was your death.
You lean over to the fence as if
asking your friend to help to
bring you back to the beauty that
was your existence
For yet that is not to be life
has been cut short.
You are no more it is time
to say goodbye.

Storm at Sea

The storm gathers strength
air increasing its wavelength
clouds rush as past they scurry
the cold creates a snow flurry

The winds fight as they battle
cold against warm they rattle
out to sea the waves gigantic
as they rush across the Atlantic

Building up into a hurricane
tossing like balsam the plane
the waves below broiling
for war they are spoiling

The ocean their playground
eerie the lights and sound
of the clashing clouds
bodies will fill the shrouds

Before the peace returns
until then the world burns
as nature's anger subsides
and the souls peace abides

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

As always, your fresh perspective
has helped me rationalize the prospect
of another terrifying day

I've been really stressed out lately until
I found the teachings of a Tibetan
monk named Lo Fat.

His book gave me real serenity
and joy at a time when I really need to
cut back on the dizzying pace of modern life,
where everyday begins with a caffeine fix
and ends with reruns of Sex in the City,
Arliss, and a few folded Kleenex.

I think it was a mentally disturbed dwarf,
who once said the only thing we really
have to fear is forgetting to return a
videotape, hair loss, weight gain,
the heartbreak of psoriasis, high rent,
car problems, heartburn, bad relationships,
tooth decay, unemployment, high cholesterol,
brain cancer, nuclear terrorism, and the horrifying
spectra of Keanu Reeves getting a talk show.

You can't sweat the small stuff.
It's the big stuff that will really
screw up your whole day.
I think that troublesome dwarf resides in my ear.

Perhaps I should consult an
ear nose and throat specialist.
One kept asking me to guess his name.
What do they want from me?
My first born?
"Damn short people"
"They got no reason"

(pause)

A lot of poets are always
trying to avoid dating themselves.
But they wind up writing about
the same thing a million others
have written about. Love, death, nature, etc.
Nothing is eternal. Might as well show people
snapshots, or open a family album,
then try to avoid who you are
and where you come from.

Some say
"Shakespeare's hard to read"

You have to write for readers in the present.
Let future readers decide who they
trash and who they treasure.
We'll all be dead by then anyway.

Freedom of expression is one thing.
How asinine is it to create music
8th graders will get their hands on that says:

"Take drugs, rape sluts,
make fun of gay clubs,
men who wear make-up
Get aware, wake up,
get a sense of humor
Quit trying to censor music,
this is for your kid's amusement"?

Why not "kill the Jews,
black people are inferior,
rape and torture children?"

(pause)

At what point does expression
become dangerous?
This music makes ME feel aggressive
and I'm a middle aged girl from the country.
What is it going to do to someone who's
already really pissed off at his teachers,
girlfriend, mother?

This isn't Ozzy Osborne
or Judas Priest.

It's like some of the art out there now chopping
up cows and gluing them to walls.
Cutting a corpses head in half and
making the two halves appear to kiss.
Homoerotic bullwhips,
bondage gear,
torture devises.

Yes, some artists
had horrible childhood's.
And they have the right to
express themselves.

But should minors be allowed to
listen to or see the art of the criminally insane?

Okay, I think
I'm ranting & rambling!
Have a wonderful week
I shall try
SAS

It is a day of strong winds
Debris streams down the street
People lean into the wind
Umberellas invert and rip
At home the storm moans and shrieks
Trees are down on the roads
Smashing houses and cars

And so we curse the weather
Take care my friends
The agencies of weather
They do the best they can
Our power to them is flawed
by cursing
We have forgotten them
But they are conscious beings
Pure eddies of great power
Bless them in the endeavour
To maintain the balance


A man was driving in a great storm
Psychic he could see the storm Lord
Astonished he said “I can see you”
He then heard “Then feel me”
The car was lifted and bounced about
The occupants were shaken and scared
Attitudes to weather changed for ever

Who said the angels have no sense of humour

I was born this way, I have never seen the day,
nor the beauty and splendour of all He has made.
No rising sun against the pale blue sky,
no oceans' tide, no mountains high,
no silver moon, gold stars shining bright,
though for me without sight it is always as night,
and so, I can only imagine it's true,
what's been said about this great vast universe and you.
Such wonders to behold which would bring sheer delight
that I would trade all other senses for one moment of sight,
for one chance to see all these things and you His,
greatest creation even my life I would give.

w.b. JS

the tide
Washes upon the beach
Drifting sand
Washed

Away by the sea
Diplaced
Carried corressed
Deposited washed away

Moving tides
Calm gently washes the beach
Exposed grains pebbles carried upon the oceon floor
Deposited
To nearest land

Gently the sea remain calm till
The changing tide the climate change
The winds blow
Vilante the sea ponds
Distruction rains

Vilante winds force 10 glale
Destruction gains
Till calmness restored
Once more

OUT-WORN heart,in a time out-worn,
Come clear of the nets of wrong and right;
Laugh heart again in the gray twilight,
Sigh,heart,again in the dew of the morn.


Your mother Eire is always young,
Dew ever shining and twilight gray;
Though hope fall from you and love decay,
Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue.


Come,heart,where hill is heaped upon hill:
For there the mystical brotherhood
Of sun and moon and hollow and wood
And river and stream work out their will;


And God stands winding His lonely horn,
And time and the world are ever in flight;
And love is less kind than the gray twilight,
And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn





To Mr.M : )

Another sleepless night
spent ruffling sheets
& a poet's mind.

Eyes swollen
like sponges,
head pounding
from another night
of sleep's betrayal.

Do emotions fill every
poet's mind when the
sun sets?

Do thoughts scream
in every poet's head
when all is silent
after dark?

Do poet's fear sleep
because they fear never
picking up the pen again,
or is it just me?

Perhaps it is that burning
within a poet's gut,
like hot coal,
like a poem being born?

Perhaps it is that pounding
that throbs within a poet's
groin, or the courage to love
like a wound that never
heals.

So many emotions
scattered around like
stars in the sky,

None with enough light
to be alone in this world.
Ahh yes, emotions, stars & poets
would wither in the darkness if alone.

How does a poet sleep,
& dream just one night
before the sun shows itself for
another day?


~SAS~

The hunter set off just before the gloaming
adjusting the straps of his high powered rifle
it was a long way to where the stag usually fed
a majestic stag sprouting twelve point antlers

Climbing high up the rugged mountain side
he trekked fast covering the many miles
at last he was where the stag usually fed
casting around for signs of his tracks

Finding them he started stalking his prey
up hill and down dale he carefully followed
until at last he could see him way up ahead
taking care to keep down wind he got close

Now about one hundred yards apart, he settled
nestling into the thick bracken patiently waiting
The stag climbed onto his favourite outlook
and stood there poised as the gloaming lit the sky

Truly a wondrous sight he was in full prime
the hunter sighed as he took steady aim
then with a click it was finally time to shoot
the stag hearing the sound took to his heels

The hunted checked his camera, yes he had him
a perfect picture well satisfied he packed up
this one picture had taken days of trailing him
now he was forever captured in magnificent splendour