Archive for Poetry

To Autumn by John Keats

Ah, summer is officially over and the light is beginning to fade in the Northern Hemisphere. Although the diminishing hue casts shadows on some, there truly is something magical about this time of year. Harvest moon, auburn leaves and wonderful Macintosh apples are some of my favorite bits. Here is what poet John Keats connected with.

To Autumn

by John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,–
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

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“This Compost” by Walt Whitman

Naturally Green Blog is celebrating National Poetry Month. What a better way than with a Walt Whitman poem. Enjoy!

This Compost

Behold this compost! behold it well!
Perhaps every mite has once form’d part of a sick person-Yet behold!
The grass of spring covers the prairies,
The bean bursts noislessly through the mould in the garden,
The delicate spear of the onion pierces upward,
The apple-buds cluster together on the apple-branches,
The resurrection of the wheat appears with pale visage out of its graves,
The tinge awakes over the willow-tree and the mulberry-tree,
The he-birds carol mornings and evenings, while the she-birds sit on their nests,
The young of poultry break through the hatch’d eggs,
The new-born of animals appear-the calf is dropt from the cow, the colt from the mare,
Out of its little hill faithfully rise the potato’s dark green leaves,
Out of its hill rises the yellow maize-stalk-the lilacs bloom in the door-yards,
The summer growth is innocent and disdainful above all those strata of sour dead.

-Walt Whitman, from the poem “This Compost”

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When I Am Among the Trees by Mary Oliver

April is National Poetry Month and if you are like me, that’s a good thing. No cards to buy, no presents to send, just wonderful words placed together that evoke a variety of feelings and emotions. I love to share poems about nature so that we are reminded of why we are eco-friendly, eco-passionate, eco-extraordinary and so on. Often, I’ve sat among the trees and they too have saved me, inspired me to write, sing and just simply shine. I am especially fond of the willows as they tell me secrets of all things wild and free.

Here is poem by the lovely Mary Oliver from her collection — Thirst

When I Am Among the Trees

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.


I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say.
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”

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Fog Bewilders

Joseph Massey lives in the beautifully foggy Humboldt County (California) and it is this exquisite place that has inspired this collection of wonderful poems entitled Areas of Fog (Shearsman Books, 2009). Here is one that I am particularly fond of.

Arcata Marsh
by Joseph Massey

Mudscape—tide’s out—
out as far as fog gives sight.

Peripherry-flecked,
organe-white
lichen latched to limbs

I thought were your
fingers—

your face turned
back by wind.

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A poem by Rachel Carson

Sometimes words about nature appear on random windows.

A poem by Rachel Carson

NEW YORK SUMMER 050

if there is poetry in my book about the sea,
it is not because i deliberately put it there,
because nobody could write truthfully
about the sea and leave out the poetry

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Poetry by Timothy Gager

Check out this poem from my wonderfully talented friend Timothy Gager.

how easy is a spring weekend

by Timothy Gager


Christina Faerch Blu Sky Mile
photo by
Christina Faerch

it is as easy as

the hint of mountain flowers,
the coolness of the streamlined
onslaught of wind
stifled by humidity

free as
the swirling rain,
except now it is us

falling from the sky.

There is fear… endless as
the afterlife where
you now know–
nothing is perfect,
this moment reaches
out and looks at us.

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One of my favorite poems about the great Mother

WHAT I DID ON A RAINY DAY
by May Swenson

Breathed the fog from the valley
Inhaled its ether fumes
With whittling eyes peeled the hills
to their own blue and bone
Swallowed piercing pellets of rain
caught cloudsful in one colorless cup
Exhaling stung the earth with sunlight
struck leaf and bristle to green fire
Turned tree trunks to gleaming pillars
and twigs to golden nails
With one breath taken into the coils
of my blood and given again when vibrant
I showed who’s god around here

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