Broken Wings

Tiny wings
Delicate, they flap
Powerful enough to generate a hurricane
On the other side of the world
Flimsy enough
For little boys to pull them off
If they can catch them
Playing cruel games
One side of the world devastated
And on the other, broken wings
Fall pathetically to the ground

Pick a point in the sky and focus on it

A truly wonderful poem.


Rules for living? So many! Turn
on your computer, and fix yourself
in the bonhomie of light within light
within light. Get comfortable. It is
going to be a long night. Learn these
rules, defy them when you get bored,
and when you think, hey, I am going to
do this my way, life, I am going to live in
how I feel it is fair and respectful
to the gift of life that has been
given to me to live, the truth is
you will have revelations and break
downs, and you will want to start it
all over because it feels like you are
not only beating a dead horse but
speaking to it with words of love
with all the love of the world in the
glory of your voice, what seeds of love,
what youth in the heart, what crown
of petals reflecting the garlands of
constellations in…

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Mother Nature Weeps

Her feet are bare as she steps over dried leaves, broken twigs, and the litter that has been deposited on the ground by generations of ungrateful half-wits.

She feels the soil slide between her toes, which wiggle unconsciously at the sensation. She feels the sharp, broken edge of a plastic bottle cap, but not the empty carelessness of whoever deposited it there.

She makes her way, naked but for the foil and the tin that has been abandoned upon her beautiful skin, and curses the souls of those who were too inconsiderate to protect her generous, life-giving form.

When she again becomes one with the earth, it loses the fertility she once provided to it, her heart too heavy with sorrow to produce sustenance for the cruel and heartless people who abuse her every single day.

On Milford Beach by Nathaniel Coombes

Gentle waves adorn the sparkling shingle
And the sun has its way with the sea
Gentle folk pass by enjoying the warmth
Of early October in the brilliant light
No cares invade the peace of this place
No thoughts destroy the magical stillness
The last visit perhaps unless the weather blesses
And the cold of winter holds back a while
It is enough to sit and wonder at simple pleasure
The joy of tranquility blessing the solitude

About Nathaniel

I am a retired university lecturer (chemistry) and live in Hertfordshire, UK. I have painted in oils, acrylics and watercolours for 25 years. You will find some of my work on my blog. About three years ago I started writing poetry, and more recently I am writing short stories. I would dearly like more followers and also to follow the work of others.

As if he hasn’t already given us a vivid enough picture with his words, there are amazing paintings on Nathaniel’s blog. And don’t forget to support his great flash fiction and poetry. Visit his site to check it all out:

Earth Woman.

This poem and image go together so well, I can almost feel the excitement in the air as the drums and dancing take place.

Wild Heart Wanderings


Dance dance dance

I hear the drums and I am empowered

The fire within me burns as the moon rises

I celebrate the magic of the Earth

She is full of scared power

We cannot ignore the rhythm’s of the land

So much goodness grows from the ground we rely on day by day

The blood of the Earth is rich just like my womb

From it comes new life

Our power is understood only by few

Come, take my hand, let us move to the beat of the drums

Let us dance together on this sacred ground.

K. Thomas 2016.

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The Forest of Arden

A great poem. I love the lines “The full throated chorus/Of the surge of new life” and the contrast of friend and foe within nature.


When did the forests pass

From being our friends, our shelter,

To become home to our terrors?

Once our playground, the grass

In glades cushioning our tumbles;

Our larder, filled with fruits and nuts,

Home to boar, deer, pheasant,

Wild garlic, mushrooms and truffles;

Our haven, protection

From oppression by pow’r hungry

Barons, from raging tempests sweeping

Destruction across our tepid

Lives, from the pitiless sun,

From the stares of judging men.

Dappled light, bronzed evening delight,

The full throated chorus

Of the surge of new life,

The wren’s shy fluttering,

The urgent squirreling mischief

And the badger’s stately secrets

Belonged to our home world.

Was it in the flesh stained

Trenches, or the dark industry

Of genocide that we stepped

Through the wardrobe? Those are easy

Targets for explanation,

But hope left the forest

With the sunshine, brambles tangled

The pathways drawing blood

From the fleeing ankles.
Now the…

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The Chi Chi Tree

Fantastic imagery, wonderful descriptions, brilliant poetry.

Cadence Collective: Long Beach Poets

By Jeffrey Alfier By Jeffrey Alfier

By Marco A. Vasquez

Perhaps we named it that
because it was kind of round,
but freakishly pointy, as only
an innocent would envision
something they have only seen

within T-shirts and sweaters,
but never in the flesh, or because
of the more realistic mounds
on the trunk that may once have birthed
branches, that allowed just enough

leverage for my Buster-Browned feet
to climb, below a knotty maze
of roots, and dirt—sprinkled
with cigarette butts and embedded
bottle caps. Regardless, it was where we

all met on evenings before cable television
and video games, scrambling to make
our way up, a net of limbs just above
our adolescent heads, but still within
an easy climb’s reach. Once up,

we’d lean against the forgiving branches—
alive beneath our spines—and talk of girls
and skateboarding, and girls and school,
and girls and girls, until we hoped
our mothers…

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The Lone Tree

A great reflective poem.

Temy Reads Lit

The Dragon mountain at sunset

Parched in the sunlight,

Witnessing the passage of time,

The small tree stands by itself

On the Dragon mountain peak

Contemplating its loneliness-

An unavoidable condition

Of its existence.

Does it ever have

Any sense of belonging?

Does it ever feel free?

The tree stands bearing

Life’s impermanence

Lakes will vaporize

Green grasses will turn golden

Spring comes and goes

Prisoners of Time.

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The Beginning

Thunder claps filled the silent air. It was thick, still, and dry, the alarming sounds the only thing that showed there was any movement at all. The thunder was steady, each roar separated by the space of five breaths. Not that there was anything on the land below to breathe.

The clouds swirled around each other, painting the sky in every shade of grey imaginable. Beans of sunlight somehow found their way through the dark expanse of sky, and turned the greys into yellows, oranges, reds, purples and blues. It might have been called beautiful, had there been anything below to call it that.

It was a long time before the rain began to fall. The wind whipped up a hurricane that was loud enough to block out even the furious thunder. It blew the dust up off the barren ground and unearthed rocks that had been hidden beneath.

Craters were formed, and the rain collected in them to make the first oceans. The thunder and the storms fought for dominance, both trying to get the upper hand, until at last they became almost indistinguishable from one another.

They continued to cause chaos, to change the shape of the land and fill the world with noise. That was all they needed to do in the beginning. And eventually, the first signs of life emerged, born into the wild noise and crazy exuberance of the storms.

Which might help to explain why there’s a bit of madness in all of us.