Beauty of Nature Poems - Page 3

Glorious sunset
Decorating the night sky...
Awaiting the moon

Peering out across the motionless water
No sounds to be heard for miles away
Nonetheless I remain quiet for now
Along with noises of the beautiful bay

Peace surrounds these mountains
Like they've known each other for years
Rekindled spirits together again
The point where the landscape clears

This part of the world so tender
A sacred tombstone set in its place
Somewhere left untouched by us
Like a precious guitar in its case 

This view gives off a feeling of glee
And it doesn't stop as far as I can see

I asked for
this primitive afternoon
away from it all

absent alarms, clocks, reminders
no traffic noise, no sirens
no voices

unless you count
the throaty gargle of the creek
that runs through this Texas ravine

or the whisper of bluebonnets
that sway like a thousand tiny bells.
All the traffic I need is here

the pebbled rush of water 
the sporty-convertible wind in my hair
a gray feather racing downstream.

The shadow I cast
sitting here on a flat rock
bare legs dangling in the current

points to
whatever hour I choose
to write with a wet finger.

(This poem first appeared in James River Poetry Review and subsequently in the author’s chapbook, Something to Read on the Plane, published by Main Street Rag Publishing Company in 2004.)

Used here with the author’s permission.

As I walk through the woods,
I see a stump where a tree once stood.

The once mighty oak laying down for a nap,
Still as can be on the forest's lap.

I choose to sit and admire the sight
In plenty of time for the first morning light.

Plants glistening with morning dew,
A robin enjoys his carefully perched view.

Animals begin to scurry all about,
The most beautiful scene, there is no doubt.

'Cause when the April storm took its toll,
The forest's top discovered a hole

Right where the fallen oak rests silently,
Long after winds swirled so violently.

The wind spared this forest, well, all but one
And filled the gap with the morning sun.

For it is that beautiful beam of light,
That pours through the opening so very slight,

That beckons me to this quiet, peaceful place,
All within Mother Nature's grace

To sit and watch the forest floor,
Through the beam each day, once more.

She picked up her brush and began to paint
Her pallet of earth sometimes was faint
The depth of scene was beyond reach of eye
Topped now and again by a turquoise sky

The colors of her painting began to run
At first a trickle... the torrent had begun
Upon her painting, eyes would struggle to look away
Her thoughts were of a landscape where hearts would play

Stepping back from the canvas, in her gaze it seems
The painting was beyond her wildest dreams
The sound of water echoed upon the wall
As she hung the painting in the great hall

She unveiled her canvas and offered it to him
Then footprints appeared on the edge of the rim
She knew they would come from the world around
Drawn by a painting... created in the ground

I was tossing in my bed
in the midnight hour,
struggling to get a wink of sleep,
but my eyes lay on the clock tower.

I looked upon the dark sky;
it was adored with sparkling pearls,
which giggled at me
and put a shine to my curls.

I gazed at the chubby moon,
who was white and glistening like milk.
Gave me a lovely, motherly smile
through her lips as rosy pink.

Suddenly, I spotted a shooting star,
as fast as a bullet train.
Behind it was a trail of glittering dust,
which appeared as a long diamond chain.

The dark sky was a dominating evil queen,
who covered the world with her black cape,
captured the stars and the moon,
so their lovely light could not escape.

All these magnificent objects
made my mind calm.
My eyelids started drooping.
I was grateful for their wonderful charm.

Nature had arrived to aid me
when I was trying to catch sleep.
She, with her caring palms,
lulled me to a slumber, so deep...

There is no stopping it.

The sky is falling to the earth,
Like snow in its beauty
But rocks in its destruction.
All living things stand still,
None daring to take a breath,
For fear that the slightest movement
Will push the universe over the edge.
The trees stand still,
And everything listens to the wind,
Whispering a warning to us all.

Suddenly there is a flash.
Light floods the world.

It was the tipping point.

The wind screeches,
And life starts again.
The trees bend and snap,
Unable to bear the weight of it all.
The rain drenches everything,
Showing no mercy for the living things below.

It is chaotic,
Even apocalyptic,
This fear bringing thing.
In a painful cleansing,
All is made new and clean.
The tornado carries a promise
Of things yet unseen.
Be true to Him,
Or face an end to this dream.

In a park whither an elderly man once went
was a bird with a voice so wonderful much money would he have spent
just to hear that melodic bird sing
and listen to its voice, with that majestic ring.

But as the seasons passed, so did the bird's voice,
and the man stopped going, though not by choice,
for his health was beginning to fade
and the bird began to wither too, but he could get no aid.

With no audience for which to sing,
a sad death was all fate would bring.
So it was that the bird passed away,
of all times that spring in late May.

In the summer that man did return,
but of the bird's death never did he learn.
So he listened to all of the birds that came,
but somehow it just never felt the same.