Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Nature: Her Words

  “Just living is not enough….one must have sunshine, freedom and a little flower.” — Hans Christian Andersen

Photo: Sumana Roy

 Modern science says: 'The sun is the past, the earth is the present, the moon is the future. 'From an incandescent mass we have originated, and into a frozen mass

we shall return. Merciless is the law of nature, and rapidly and irresistibly we are

drawn to our doom" — Nikola Tesla

Midweek Motif ~ Nature: Her Words

We are back to Nature with our eyes open and heart ready to receive.

She is everywhere even within one self. Watch, listen and feel Her.

You might pay Her a visit by the riverside, sea-beach, or deep forest, mountains, in your innermost being or just might open the window and let Her in.

Captivate the form Nature reveals to you: animate, inanimate.

You might assume Her voice if you wish to and tell Her story: 

Fog

by Carl Sandburg

The fog comes

on little cat feet.

It sits looking

over harbor and city

on silent haunches

and then moves on.

On The Grasshopper and Cricket

by John Keats

The Poetry of earth is never dead:    

  When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,    

  And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run    

From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;    

That is the Grasshopper’s—he takes the lead       

  In summer luxury,—he has never done    

  With his delights; for when tired out with fun    

He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.    

The poetry of earth is ceasing never:    

  On a lone winter evening, when the frost      

    Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills    

The Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,    

  And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,    

    The Grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.

      Nature Is What We See

   by Emily Dickinson 

"Nature" is what we see—
The Hill—the Afternoon—
Squirrel—Eclipse—the Bumble bee—
Nay—Nature is Heaven—
Nature is what we hear—
The Bobolink—the Sea—
Thunder—the Cricket—
Nay—Nature is Harmony—
Nature is what we know—
Yet have no art to say—
So impotent Our Wisdom is
To her Simplicity. 

  A Minor Bird

by Robert Frost

I have wished a bird would fly away,

And not sing by my house all day;

Have clapped my hands at him from the door

When it seemed as if I could bear no more.

The fault must partly have been in me.

The bird was not to blame for his key.

And of course there must be something wrong

In wanting to silence any song.

Please share your new poem using Mr. Linky below and visit others in the spirit of the community—

                (Next week Susan’s Midweek Motif will be ~ Respect)