Thread: landscape poetry

I love nature and landscape so I thought we could nominate a word and so on and get some peotry to rhyme or describe it.
those who can draw are very welcome to illustrate it too.

the word is:
DESERT

doomed to dunes

barren glare at mortal life
gnashing teeth, nails bent against it
her own crescent lay unfruited
bitter, burnt, bereft of even self
and so ...

she ages in her face
north is as west
across her cleft breast
dunes of unrest ...

... oasis? nay
tis but pause
pause then driven on
sun on bent back
sun on scale
sun on shriveled bough
smirking
baring that mound that would perpetuate
but for lack of a sire

therein lies her bitter angst
shunned, put away from abundance
and so she strikes out
stab bleached bones in vengeance
unreconciled
unconsoled

sweet moving wind
softly it flings
hazels of sand
flustered and warm
brittle it looks
wanten it feels
as sheer as hase
grander then strength
desert is shun
drizzled in sun
evening is near
rising in mere
desert is lushed
darkness is plunged
chilling in trust
mirage is melt
in honey flakes
sliding a slope
a dune of hope

Of The Desert

The glare of the sun forcing me to turn my head.
Not the soft, salty fluff of beaches, not the cool crash of waves, this.
Our blue is the stuff of far-seeing eyes and a cradle for the killing sun.
The gritty, burning sand working it's way into every fold of my skin.
The slits for eyes, the deep, brown creases in the face of my companion.
What stories of travels are buried in those flesh-valleys, so weather-worn?
The constant yearning of my body for water. My head pounding with the surge of thick blood.
My tongue feels like a damp envelope in my mouth, the glue swollen and gummy.
How close to the edge we push in our quest to be somewhere, not-here.
The white noise of the sand's susurration as it is torn from the tips of the dunes.
To patter down on every surface, its unceasing movement is my constant challenge.
The pad, pad, pad, pad of the camel swaying hypnotically along, following its ancient varying path.
Learned from wadi to wadi at the urging of its caravan, that flotilla of life in the dead sea of sand.
We men of tribes, our calling, our trial to overcome the elements.

Of the desert.

The SEA

Cool waters lap against each other following the sands of time,
like an forever consistent poem that always changes the rhyme.
Sometimes the sea seems suspended like a clear mirror reflecting peace
and sometimes the sea rages, undeniable in it's quest to never cease.

People can gaze upon it and think they have found the reason for sorrow,
others gaze and see themselves as a being at peace with tomorrow.
Ice melts, sand drifts, fire burns and only the waters of the sea stay
yet the tides come and go and seem to show time drifting away.

One picture is not enough nor will any amount if pictures be enough
as the sea is all of them and none of them, calm and smooth or angry and rough.
It keeps the wheels of the world turning more than money or power ever could
as it will always be their giving life and gaining the respect it always should.