Yes, anything can be a poem, so choosing material is not hard. Once you begin and publish and people read what you write that worry about "Is it ok?" becomes very small compared to the toughest part of poetry writing...Finding the hour. Well, I'm a sort of part time, moonlighting kind of a poet, maybe when I use some of these internet poetry links and read real poetry from real poets I will begin to see my own failings (as a poet I mean) and may develop higher level poet skills.
Anyway, mental ramblings aside, tonight's promised poem contains references to "The World" and "the Environment" and beauty... stuff like that. So, be warned! This poem could go feral!
The bush clad hills
The bush clad hills
have a shape so familiar,
I know them like my own body,
maybe better.
The trees are garments,
they cover,
in places like a burkah,
and in others like ill-fitting hand-me-downs,
some places have been stripped and appear
like grimy field workers on a hot summer day,
or beachgoers in their swimsuits, all skin and sunburn.
The green on these hills is not Bluegrass, emerald or lime,
it is the smokey green bush mix of Manuka and Rimu.
It contrasts wildly with the plantation green of Pinus Radiata.
The hills have no say in their garb
they simply wear it.
but I am not just a person of just this place.
I am aware that each place has its own covering.
The rainforest, the tundra, prairie and grasslands.
Dusty, bare lone-treed places
still have to get up each morning
and present themselves to the universe, not easy.
Gaia,
The world.
She.
Beauty.
Papatuenuku.
In all forms,
day and night,
made ready
or caught unawares.
Beautiful.
The bush clad hills remind me.
Andrew Thompson
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Hi, thanks for reading my poetry and thanks for your comment.