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Nature
by AMALOU OUASSOU (Morocco)
April 2022
We think it was a lit cigarette
flicked off the wrist of a driver, racing past
by JENSEN LEE (United States)
April 2022
Once under the light of dawn
there sat a singing lark.
by RYDER KEREOPA (Australia)
April 2022
You think this poem will preserve the breeze,
preserve the dark and oaky trees
by JAYDA BRAIN (Australia)
April 2022
Pollen stuck to his thighs, the man feels
something unnamable growing in his chest
by GENEVIEVE SMITH (United States)
April 2022
"Bye," she says. "Love you!"
I freeze, almost tripping down the steps.
by ELOISE DAVIS (United Kingdom)
November 2021
My dad and I have come to the mutual realisation that he can't force me to help him out in the garden.
by JONATHAN CHARLES STEPHENS (United States)
November 2021
Ingrain yourself in a wild honey: flail a standing ovation with petaled hands
by LINDA KONG (United States)
November 2021
moonlight kisses the clouds. It rings, the moonlight, like church bells striking.
by ZARA VALE (Australia)
November 2021
You cringe as the door opens with a loud beep, but no one comes running.
by IZRAHMAE SUICO (The Philippines)
July 2021
Today, nature is fit in an open, square bus window with Mama obstructing the moving, alfresco greenery.
by SASINDIE SUBASINGHE (Sri Lanka)
July 2021
It begins with patter, like the impatient tap
of painted nails, the rain thrums on the roof
by OLIVIA GOLDSMITH (New Zealand)
July 2021
"Quark querk arck erk,"
That's what the tui said.
by BETHANY ADDO-SMITH (United Kingdom)
July 2021
I drink the elderflower air,
poured by the 4am sky
by ELIJAH LIU (Singapore)
April 2021
Water waits and wastes away in wilted states. It waxes and wanes in winter weather and slips away in the spring fever.
by PIPPI JEAN (New Zealand)
December 2020
Of all the swimmer summer and the dust, sun, rain, you are what sticks out.
by ANNA O'CONNOR (Ireland)
August 2020
I do not see the stars from where I stand
but I know they are there.
by SHERRY SHU (Canada)
August 2020
He scuttled furiously from beneath the undergrowth, pausing every few seconds to catch his breath.
by LIORA SCOP (South Africa)
August 2020
They say 7 billion people stayed home today
2.2 billion children stayed out of school
by MARIANA SANTIBANEZ (Mexico)
August 2020
As we turn into ghost towns and ghost stories,
I memorize the steps, the corners, the edges.
by NEERAJA KUMAR (India)
August 2020
125 miles.
I never imagined they could be so close.
by CAROLINE DINH (United States)
April 2020
Sometimes I like to collapse infinity
into a single point in time I label "now."
by MARGHERITA MORO (Italy)
December 2019
The grass stings my thighs and whispers at me to move my legs so that it may look upon the stars
by ELLA GREEN (New Zealand)
December 2019
I try to think of death as an ocean; uncharted and unknown, but vast.
by ELEANOR LEWIS (Wales)
December 2019
i have come back
to the village i swore i would never see again
by ENLING LIAO (Australia)
September 2019
Late afternoon. I never knew a whisper, soft and sweet, could sing
by ELIZABETH BUNTIN (United States)
April 2019
There is a certain inscrutability in the mercurial ebb and flow of life in the woods, an unassuming cadence that settles just beyond my naive circumspection. The dry sweep of the wind’s touch is fond and insidious in turns . . .
by MAI MCGAW (United States)
April 2019
On a frosty October morning, I walk to a field
And lie flat on my back in the dewy grass.
