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Poems about Nature
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Under the bridge, alone with you / I knew exactly what I wanted to do. / Under the bridge, where no one could see / I was glad to have you
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I lay here on this moonlit night / nestled among soft tufts of grass / on the side of a knoll / at the edge of a clearing / hidden amidst a
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Oh have you heard of Hon Printai, / The land of beasts and lore? / If never told this story bold, / Then you I shall not bore. / / (I) / I
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My entirety, / Hidden within this life's mask, / Never fully seen, / Until the day my soul flies, / Then will I truly exist.
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I make my living from the market-place / Just as my fathers would; / I move between the avenues / Selling and
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I was watching a bird up in a tree. / I'm sure that he was watching me. / I was sunning in the bright sunlight / thinking that he might take flight. / I let out a loud tomcat cry / thinking that might make him fly. / Sure enough I was right
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Had I been that artist... / whose brush painted the sky that day... / Throwing colors around like splashes of water. / A splash of pink... / then gold and maybe amethyst. / Had I been the artist who created that mystical / smeared rainbow some
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Lonely....... / And outside I stood gazing into the star studded night sky. / As blue as the deepest parts of the ocean...... / As blue as
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I am the shadows of the forest constantly on the prowl through the undergrowth / at any moment, I will break into a clearing. / Eternal twi
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Sticky foam of saliva / exertion dries my lips to twigs, / kissing bitter tree leaves. / / Tongue crept softy against glossed teeth / forming words in unknown languages. / Cross eyes cross referenced / against the bruised backdrop. /
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As the thunders and rains ride in from the sea / We are left to part from what could be / A home, a new life for young and old / Yet the drive to survive has again fallen to the mold / Nearly three years to the day, but not one has past / That w
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The hills in autumn are hawk-colored. / The wind flaps and screeches through dry straw, / burlap and denim wait to be stuffed and faces pai
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Just messin' around with some research on the Banshee
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There is nothing in the world as you and me / It is but the fragmentation of the human mind / Break open the mind in you / Then see the div
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As I looked out across the morning rain / A veil drew over that pale sky, / And that refreshing deluge made its claim / To all that had so far been far too dry. / The intoxicating showers watered / Wherever nature was desiccated. / And as that
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Incandescent light illuminating a fire's flame / Transforming confusion of sensation's shame / Dancing and twirling the shadows of hell / Placing on life a simple spell / / I am me / What I do / Is to show / Inside of you / / Here I
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I want to be a geode, sly and surreptitious. / Split me apart. Demosthenes open wide, / all serrated tongue and semi-precious teeth. / / I am redwood bark on a mossy floor, / dreaming of saguaro neighbors and / the stultifying Arizona clim
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Satan doesn’t have to come to me. I’ll go to him. / I expect to see him: waiting, massive, / writhing. / / I am too impatient for the bottle. / I chew through pure blue agave, / greedy for the gusano. / / Buffeted by protein, elixired,
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Season of puffed up clouds scorched brown grass / Long laziness seeking a spot of shade / To fend off noon's blaze with shadow of fences /
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The first mitochondria that got hold of metabolic splendor / or the cells that encased them, to carry it forever / the multi-celled species that followed thereafter / / never know where they came from, just that they got to keep going / / Pl
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There is an animal all fierce and dangerous / That is alone in this world / He is the wolf the mighty wolf / He is alone and dangerous / He is just the lone wolf / He fights for life. / He is just an animal. / But this animal is just you in
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Up here on the mountain, / so early and so soon / after the rain / you can see the trees / breathing / / Listless wisps of floating fog / sail close to the hillsides / tell-tale trails of the forest's / furtive seething / / A mile
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Sunset red stains the plains / like Quantrill days in bloody Lawrence. / A kestrel arcs overhead, but he has not / one red feather. / / On
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Merciful-- the only kind adjective / ever ascribed darkness; it awards us / the privilege of aeons-old stars: the chance / to wink out of
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97 percent of bees are female. The males are solely utilized for copulation, but I remain unconvinced because how could
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Bundles of snowdrops, frail and white,
Have come through soil just over night.
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