Category: Nature Poetry

Arrowhead Hunting

Delicately crafted Indian arrowheads,
razor-sharp flint projectile points,
primitive stone bullets,
hidden artifacts from long ago.

Eventually they call out to our curiosity
on hot and steamy summer mornings,
inviting us to freshly plowed cornfields,
where they’ve patiently slept for millennia.

You know they’re out there,
hoping to remain buried secrets, yet
wishing to be found, revered, and held excitedly
in eager young boys’ sweaty palms.

We hunted them as faithfully as
the ancient “arrowhead” men,
who hunted prey with bows and spears
in long forgotten grasslands and forests.

Something powerful awakens inside you
in realizing you are the first person
to hold this cool, jagged edged stone tool
since it was created 2,000 years ago.

Suddenly, you become aware that
nothing is really lost in our vast universe–
It is simply waiting for an inquisitive hand
to reach into the dark earth and bring it back to life.

Watching a Hummingbird Snare a Spider

The hummingbird snared and ate the spider–
straight out of the spider’s dangling web.
Not something you’d expect
on this early July evening.
But then again,
how much do we really know
about the workings of nature,
let alone the appetite of the hummingbird,
who graces our presence
with his beating wings
and unmistakeable humming song?

Watching a Farm Awaken

I love the way a farm awakens
especially in the early spring
How it knows to be itself
Just like the faded red barn knows
there is nothing but the moment
What we see between sips of morning coffee

I love the morning songs cardinals sing
Chips and whistles carried by the wind
Who isn’t spellbound by how
the darkness slowly gives way to light
How the old barn never complains, or begs
for a fresh coat of red paint

I love the way the morning fog hugs low places
in the still unplowed fields
Where soon fresh ears of corn will grow
And crows will wait in anxious clusters
Sumptuous meals, Heaven’s delight

Yes, I love the way a farm awakens
especially in the early spring
There the soul knows no boundaries
Its vastness spreads in quiet repose
Across a to be defined horizon
Painting a pretty picture, a new day begins

Hummingbird

I waited for you
You did not come
I watched for you
My eyes grew tired
I fell fast asleep

As I slept
There were dreams
Dancing through my head
Of you
Life and death

You were there
In all my dreams
The buzz of your wings constant
Your gleeful chirp between sips
Of life’s sweet nectar

I awakened from my dreams
There you were at my window
There you were in my heart
It’s all a miracle—
The dreams, life, hummingbirds

Another version here

Sunlight in the Flower Garden

Sunlight toured the garden early this morning
Igniting fire in the flowers and their leaves
I stood helpless, breathless, overcome
By the beauty only garden sunlight can create

I may never be the same
After seeing how a garden’s many possibilities
Become living, breathing realities
When sunlight awakens them from their sleep

Even the lone chipmunk
Who spends her day
Darting in and out of the garden
Stood still to receive what sunlight so freely gives

I set aside my pen and paper
Rushed into the garden to receive
The blessing of sunlight
Now my day has completely changed

In Search of God They Murder

Many over 10,000 pounds
standing 10 to 12 feet tall
Among God’s most grand creatures
Hunted, brutally slaughtered for their tusks
Senselessly stripped of life

And for what?
Just to feed a mindless fetish
for ivory pendants and trinkets
designed to ward off evil
and move souls closer to God

Wouldn’t this journey to God
be much shorter
without such evil, and simply
following the elephants’ footsteps
into the summer sunset?

Always in Good Taste

Gaudy, Mother Nature is not
Never does she show poor taste
how she displays herself
Can you think of a time?

We may disagree with the clouds
she hangs overhead, and
the rain they dump on our parade
But hardly gaudy, you would agree

Yet, as we look in the cosmic mirror
it often seems we, as one
of her more able creatures
fail to live up to her high standards

Why else would we paint over
her beautiful forests and streams
with all our houses, roads and utility lines?
Someone please take away the brush!

Slowly it seems, we are catching on
It’s high time, we show better taste
in how we live our lives
Don’t you think?

Rant: Sometimes I wonder what the heck
we are doing to our world. We build beyond
what we need. Less is more. Don’t you think?

Doing What You’re Here to Do

As your life happens
in deep unexpected ways
give in, to the light
shining magestically through
all standing between you, and
that shining through
like sparkling diamonds
in the black satin night sky

Surrender, best you can
to what you’ve always been
from the first moment
your soul breathed
inhaling life’s eternal beauty
exhaling what only you can provide
in this incantation
and this incarnation

And when you know
what can be known only by you
about this life
its purpose and position
rest assured, you have achieved
what you must
so all else, inside and outside
can continue forward

Autumn Changes in Our Lives

The air turned suddenly cold last night
Not bitter and biting, like lifetime anger
festering in the soul
but cold enough
freezing helpless leaves
making them wince in pain

Taking her orders straight from the top
Autumn brings down and colors up
what eventually passes
Giving way to Old Man Winter
his long thick white beard
and deep frosty breath

Perhaps a good night for a fire, warming us
to impending changes in the weather and ourselves
Not a mandate for winter coats yet
but certainly an occasion for donning
that heavy wool sweater smiling at us
from the dresser’s bottom drawer

All this said and done
Autumn readies us, for what is to come…
transformational change, like that brought on
by the marriage of death and rebirth
Like that touching us
in our final working years, just before retirement

Autumn in All Her Glory

Walking, painted forest all about
Reds, yellows, golds, oranges,
Nature’s magical extravaganza
coaxing us deeper within

Autumn, screaming vibrant color
Her sweet voice, ringing in our ears
With gentle fingers, plucking harp strings
enticing leaves to turn their final corner

Migrating blackbirds overhead
waving last goodbyes
tip southward, then disappear
into streaming white sunlight

Tempted into submission
we give her all we have
Refilled, there is no containing
what she gives back

October Full Moon

Why does the October full moon
seem so lonely, yet so bright?

Why does her luminous light
seem so still, without flicker?

Why does solitary moonlight
fill my dreams with deep mysteries
keeping me awake as I sleep?

Why does the moon remind me
there is more to life
than what the sun can show?

Why do such questions
linger inside me
like hungry grey wolves
scouring the woods for prey?

Why is there no rest, until
I make peace with this October moon?

The Crickets’ Autumn Song

Solitary crickets, drone on
through the night’s deepest hours
about fall’s impending ascent

They tell poignant epic stories
they never quite finish
leaving last lines, for the winter sun
to write on fresh-fallen snow

The crickets hypnotic chirping, drowns out
the 12:07 am train, passing unnoticed
except for the squealing rails, stretching
from one end of the night to the other

Summer died suddenly, but gloriously
like the fuzzy green caterpillar, morphing
in one afternoon into a graceful butterfly

The crickets just do what they do
without being asked, or rewarded
They sing in a voice, heard by the turning leaves
the fading grass, swelling pumpkins
who otherwise might miss their time

When I was young, I was too busy
to hear the crickets sing
Now autumn rises up in me
as I ready for the winter sun
to write again last lines
in the fresh-fallen snow

At Day’s End in the Forest

Retreating September sunlight
Last traces…
creamsicle-orange glows and streaks
poking through tree openings
Marking day’s end

Rustling sounds draw closer
White-tailed doe, spotted fawn emerge
from forest darkness
Young seedling leaves–
an awaited bedtime snack

Sun’s last rays slip
below an outstretched horizon
Pale blue-gray evening light
descends upon forest shadows
Doe and fawn disappear into their own footsteps

As September Draws Nigh

Summer plans one final act, readying
to turn over the stage to autumn, whose invitations
out early this year
have captured the hearts of the sun, leaves
remaining flowers and birds

None can resist fall’s impending magical dance of color
its extravagance, spell-bounding beauty
The trees must sleep, after a long hardworking summer
The flowers return to seed, rejoining the earth birthing them
And the birds draw straws, seeing who will stay
and who will flock and head southward

With just a glimmer of sadness, I watch
as September draws nigh
the last of summer drift past my window
and autumn’s glorious color show begin

The Monarchs on Point Lobos

monarch butterflies, following their destiny
traverse the rockies and sierras in magical caravans
at the right moment, coming to rest in dense clusters
in monterey pines and eucalyptus plants on point lobos

perhaps it’s the call of the sea lions
catching rays on the staggered jagged rocks
or just their hearts beckoning them
to carmel’s deep peace and grandeur

in unison, their wings flutter in the cool ocean breeze
sweeping across the enchanted peninsula
always in pairs, they break away from the clusters
finding their way into the sunny meadows
flirting with the fragrant douglas irises and coffeeberry shrubs

until march, the monarchs call point lobos home
a safe haven where god stands watch
performing miracle after miracle
and where wintering monarchs invite their aquatic friends
the seals, sea lions, otters and whales
to help paint the breathtaking canvas

Climbing the Chagrin River by Mary Oliver

We enter
the green river,
heron harbor,
mud-basin lined
with snagheaps, where turtles
sun themselves–we push
through the falling
silky weight
striped warm and cold
bounding down
through the black flanks
of wet rocks–we wade
under hemlock
and white pine–climb
stone steps into
the timeless castles
of emerald eddies,
swirls, channels
cold as ice tumbling
out of a white flow–
sheer sheets
flying off rocks,
frivolous and lustrous,
skirting the secret pools–
cradles
full of the yellow hair
of last year’s leaves
where grizzled fish
hang halfway down,
like tarnished swords,
while around them
fingerlings sparkle
and descend,
nails of light
in the loose
racing waters.

Note: This poem is about the Chagrin River,
a wild and scenic river in the Cleveland area.
A beautiful river, a beautiful poem.