excerpted from chapter seven of The Story of My Life, by Helen Keller. The book was first written in 1902 in magazine form, while she was in college, at the age of 22 For a long time I had no regular lessons. Even when I studied most earnestly it seemed […]
Read “Morning” ecopoem by L.L. Barkat: I have tabbed the page / of H.D.’s ‘Oread,’ / with its plea—”whirl up” / —to the sea. (…)
Reading poems — need a reason?
Here are 10 short tree poems for every season!
From haiku to free-verse. Covering everything from spring and summer, to autumn and winter poems, all are thoughtful bursts of wonder.
Need a little rest & respite? Try 10 short nature poems to delight! Includes every season: spring poems, summer poems, autumn poems and winter poems. Snow, kale, butterflies and geese — all are delightful gifts of wonder.
The search for a tailor’s awl for an art project becomes a meditation on the intersection of the useful and the beautiful. Buying secondhand isn’t just good for the earth, it’s good for us too.
Visit the Poetic Earth Month “art gallery” and see the hemlocks dancing behind a veil.
Eight children discover—and build—a world in the woods. It’s a world of imagination. It’s a world they don’t want to leave. One of those children, now grown, remembers what happened, in this short, original film.
We don’t need to change a thing, except our search engine, to start winning the climate game by just doing what we do every day anyway.
In this lyrical excerpt from Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tale “What the Moon Saw,” we meet a cast of characters who each view the forest and the trees from their own personal vantage points.
When “the three sisters” disappeared outside a Pittsburgh window, it was the end of an era in more ways than one. Who could have known how much it would mirror a niece’s sorrow and love.
Hawksbill Crag By gravel road we rise four miles into Ozark bluff. Our truck hugs the slant of timber line thin as a pencil streak. At Hawksbill Crag, we tramp thousands of feet above shaggy pine and the thumb of Jehovah. I clutch a walking stick, while you slide to the edge of the bluff […]
The tree house he built, the smell of a grass fire’s smoke and vanilla, and camping. It’s Father’s Day in this poem about memories.