Poem: Nature’s Rebirth

Rebirth of nature every year,

the barren branches, refilled,

the yellowish grass, emerald,

from the frozen soil, springs knew life,

all for a moment,

willing to be alive until the next cycle which demands their change,

for the rebirth is cyclical,

but I’m too often blind to nature’s lesson,

stuck in my ways,

rooted to a singular path,

a path on which I was set on by others,

rarely do we decide where we walk,

little do we change,

rarely is there a new you,

for the trials of such a thing are filled with hardships,

for the branch to discover its leaves it must survive the harsh winter,

for the grass to gain its shine it must hold the blanket of snow,

the bud of spring must hold its breath under the hardened ground,

only though suffering is the renewal possible,

no wonder I stay rotted in comfort,

no wonder I stay the same,

no wonder I only live one life,

but if I had nature’s understanding,

what could I have been?

how many lives I could have lived?

reborn anew,

each year, each season, each month, each day, each moment,

instead of staying the same,

the same me tells myself the same advice,

another winter comes,

soon it’ll be gone,

with spring,

I shall to rise,

this time,


Poem: Nature Changes Itself

Look outside and you’ll understand how to act,

spring brings with it life, budding

are the flowers which were once, dormant

during the winter, snow

covered ground, giving the illusion of death, before

the frost there were brittle amber leaves, which rested

among the yellowing grass, bright

it once was, a summer ago,

a sea of emerald waved with the breeze, freshened

by previous spring’s rain.


In ancient times, the great

philosophers taught their wisdom, to

whoever wished, Stoics

got their name from stoa, a

covered walkway for the public to listen, openly

their thoughts on life and how one should act, like

nature, one just had to listen.


Nature talks, gives lectures, instructs

on how to behave, yet

we are blind to it, deaf

to the words, don’t

see how it changes itself, cyclical

it becomes anew, changing

and not demanding change in others, while

it remains the same.


Nature shows its difference from us,

mankind, womankind, all kind

which often demands change, of

others, yet

don’t change themselves, easier

to judge than be judged, simpler

to point the finger at others, than

point at oneself, don’t

tell me that I am living in contrary to my spirit, instead

show me your oneness with your own spirit, perhaps

then, I’ll change.

Poem: We Are Art

We are art,

a crimson stroke from a paintbrush,

casting, waning, flame-like light of the setting sun,

no such thing as silence in nature’s symphony,

Dylan’s raspy voice singing about changing times,

breeze makes the grass sing, the woodpecker pecks, your heart beats,

all together, making nature’s tunes,

knotted roots of ancient trees, your grandfather’s wisdom,

changing times makes the leaves brittle,

your grandmothers caring hands,

all part of the picture which nature paints.


Change is art,

death and dying,

live and living,

both leave an imprint on the portrait like a distinct curl of the pen tip,

human art captures a moment in time,

nature’s art is endless,

like the crashing waves on a shoreline,

in the distance, another wave rises,

nature’s art is never completed,

human art can be destroyed,

burning pages, melting paint, toppled statues,

are all part of the story nature is telling,

and hence, it’s art is immortal,

for as we hold the pen or brush,

nature holds us,

what we create,

nature creates,

our art is part of its art,

A singular piece, perhaps not even the main subject,

for we are part of nature and not a distinct entity,

and with the understanding that we are part of its art,

we are art.