#natural poems on Hello Poetry

Evangeline Ashe Aug 2018

I've found a space nestled in
this gnarled and craggy tower,
which hums in deep and velvet green,
where atip each weathered, gently-laden bower
hangs a fragile canvas pale beneath.

Here a little haven even opens when,
on dewy mornings and after rain,
you can gaze just for a time
as memories rivel along the veins
in pearl and crystalline.

Whispers and howls from outside to come down
but I think I'd like just to sit,
and ever more reside,
between the fresh and fallen leaves
and write my notes on their underside.

#secret #spaces #sanctuary #poetry #natural #leaves

Swapnil Duryodhan Aug 2018

Rise and fall of a life

Like a drop of dew I condense—
Onto a leaf where I sojourn.
And as swiftly as that I fall
Beneath the clouds
Hand in hand with gravity
Offering zero resistance.

#dew #birth #death #transient #natural

Pauper of Prose Aug 2018

Ceasing Sensations Within Cycles

When the moth no longer meditates on the cloth
When the fish fails to flit when it’s caught
When the calling crickets lose the will to whip up noise
When the eagle’s eagerness is evaporated along with poise
When all of nature neglects itself, adrift on its track
You’ll know for sure those feelings aren’t coming back

When that spark flickers feebly before flailing out

#epiphany #realization #discovery #muse #clarity #remorse #natural

TB Dentz Jul 2018

Carbon

I climbed to the top of a mountain
And rolled back down in a barrel of oil

I threw a plastic bottle in the ocean
Just to see what would happen

I visited the tropics, both of them
And littered in each one

I am the creator of worlds
And I am the destroyer

#cyclical #natural #decisions #indifference #danger

Maria Etre Jul 2018

Anthony

Don't change
the pe(r)son
I s(e)e
in good (m)(a)tters
and bad
s(i)tuatio(n)s

"If I could give you my eyes" Series

#him #eyes #perception #bad #good #true #self #matters #natural

Satra-Sia Jul 2018

Afro

I sit with my afro, tall and round like the trees
I sit with my afro between my mother's knees
And I cry.
She thinks it's because she pulled my hair
I let her feel guilty but really that's not fair
Because it's you.
So as my mother glides the comb through my onyx curls
Your web of lies begins to unfurl
And all at once you were my world
But now you're nothing.
My mother's hands twist my hair into braids
Partings in more ways than one have been made
Memories like my brother's fade
But not for you.
Yours are stronger than my mother's hands
Yet as soft as my Indian strands
And how I wish I could get the clippers and shave
my head and watch my memories of you fall away
But I can't.

So as my mother braids my hair down my back
I remember you and try to forget the fact
That you ran your hands through this Raven hair
Shielded my now tear streaked face from the frozen air
Forget that you loved the coarse strands
As much as the Indian; soft in your hands
So I lock away these memories with each braid
And try to prove to myself that I'm more afraid
Of losing my afro than losing you.

I tell myself that it's my mother pulling that makes me cry
But you and I,
Know that's not true.

#afro #natural #memories #love #hair

Dominique Jul 2018

an act of nature

I pop a pomegranate seed.
It bleeds,
Delicate fuchsia delight,
Mineral scented, warm, bright,
Full of nectar and promise
(now wasted)

I pop another one,
In a soft cove on my arm-
A slight dip between two veins -
And watch the blushing drop
Edge closer to my elbow. Stop.

A third time,
With the fury of fear
Tiptoeing listlessly in my mind,
Like raindrops on a rooftop.
It is sweet, and ******,
A waste of time but an act of god
Nonetheless.

I crave the sound and texture of it,
So a fourth time comes around.
By now, the citrus is overpowering
But I keep going,
For the sake of purity,
For the sake of the shock of vibrance
On deathly pale skin.

When my arm is covered in juice,
I give up.
There's no sense in envying the wasted.

Scarlet sticks.

#cutting #pomegranate #sweet #sour #natural #craving

Kewayne Wadley Jul 2018

A Cup

And just like coffee.
Let your aroma tingle and stimulate the smiles of those around.
The best source of touch
Without cream or sugar.
Stir the organic presentation that brings the next minute that much closer.
Whether the preference is a mug or a styrofoam cup.
Remember,
At the end of the day.
Coffee fits into any size container
And brings to life any size smile.
With one quick sip
The senses awake to a new day.
Swirled in unspoken travel sized rule.
It follows,
The beautiful ovation that rushes once poured.
Beautifully represented by your smile.
The tone of your skin.
Your hair naturally at ease.
Stirred by a finger.
Specialism by the majority nodding away,
Yet awaken by your essence.
Soon extracted and brought to life.
Swirling beyond content.
And just like coffee,
I look forward to a cup of you

#coffee #cup #love #infatuation #kewayne #wadley #forher #natural #hair #aroma

writer18384828 Jul 2018

Faces of the Foyle

To see the hotel rise and bare its face between the repulsed pillars of peace was a sight long savoured on my first return to Derry.
And never before had oxidised copper appeared so appealing - now the patina beamed like a
tarnished hat upon a goliath, urging me closer to the heart of the city.
Imposing, imperfect but effortlessly pretty.

Seeing Derry for the first time in weeks, it felt different.
Not like a new place, but rather a very old one with all prosperity frozen.
A place you visit because of how old it is - what has happened there, not what is happening.
There will always be a certain amount of charm to the city; whether it's derived from the aged
walls that watch your every move like wise, sentient snakes swallowing the old centre. Or
perhaps the people will charm you, as a wounded animal may.
As regardless of circumstance they always find a way.

An unfortunate breed, many of the Derry ones. A breath-taking city undoubtedly, but I
couldn't help feeling bad for those that couldn't get out. It's like quicksand - unique,
intriguing, beautiful in a sense, but if you linger too long it'll pull you in.
The second largest city in the North, yet we lay detached and divorced from the commerce of
Belfast - no motorway to link us with the Queen's city, for reasons known all too well.
More like purgatory though I've painted it like hell.

I always felt people here knew strongly what they stood against - but never for.
Knew what had happened to the city - but not what will.
An untapped pipeline of problems lays trembling beneath us all.
Issues that we can't or won't address.
I've known people two, three, four years my junior that felt the Foyle offered their only
escape. It's been that way for centuries - the Foyle let us out - in famine or fight the New
World awaiting through its mouth. A fast flowing river capable of washing it all away.
But now it was being used for a very different kind of release.
Not to find new shores, but perpetual peace.

In spite of this, it is my home and always will be.
And I love it for it has formed me.
Though I may sound wary or condemning, it is only because I hold it so dear.
The original beacon of the North, until usurped by Belfast after two hundred years.
A city of culture, known long before they told us.
But I must be careful not to rest here for much, one can become hardened
By pondering too long the citys song, a morbid tale and ardent.

The Hall's bell moans and wails, like a Siren baiting me with its soft appearance.
The light refracting through the stain glass throws obscene blends of colour over the city,
glimmering, undualting, and I am mesmerised.
A facade and cadence used to deceive, urging me closer to the heart of the city.
Imposing, imperfect yet even more pretty.

#natural #city #homecoming #people #home