Ekphrastic
Verses by the Sea
Verses by the Sea — A Poet’s Peaceful Reflections on the Shore Beneath a sky of amber light, Where sea and silence softly meet, A poet finds their soul take flight With every wave that greets their feet. The ocean hums a gentle tune, Its rhythm calm, its meaning deep— A lullaby to sun and moon, A cradle where the muses sleep. The pen moves slow, then starts to glide, As thoughts like seagulls rise and soar. No need to rush, no need to hide— Each line becomes a whispered shore. The breeze, a friend with salty breath, Turns pages like the hands of time. The tide erases fear of death, And life returns in every rhyme. So here the poet sits, alone— Yet held by sky, by sea, by sand. With verses carved from wind and stone, And truth unfolding in their hand.
By Muhammad Saad about a year ago in Poets
What is poetry
The Window Maya sat by the window of her grandmother’s old cottage, a steaming mug of tea in her hands and a wool blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The autumn wind whispered through the trees outside, scattering golden leaves across the garden like forgotten memories. It had been years since she’d last been here, and everything smelled like time—dust, dried lavender, and something older, quieter. The window was the same. It framed the garden like a painting. Ivy crept along the wooden sill. As a child, Maya believed the window was magical. Her grandmother used to tell her that if you stared through it long enough, you wouldn’t just see the garden—you’d see what the garden remembered. Back then, it felt like a story to help her sleep. But now, at twenty-eight, sitting in the same chair her grandmother used to rock in, Maya wondered if there was more truth in her grandmother’s stories than she realized. She reached for the journal she found in a drawer earlier that morning. It was bound in worn leather, its pages filled with neat handwriting and old poems, each dated, each signed: L.R.—Lilian Rose, her grandmother. She flipped through them, stopping at one that seemed different. It was titled “The Window Remembers.” She read the poem aloud, her voice soft, hesitant: "Through pane of glass and time’s slow thread, The window watches what’s long dead. But those who sit and truly see, May glimpse what once was, used to be." As she read the final line, a chill ran down her spine. She looked out again. The garden shimmered, just for a second. The apple tree that now stood bare and twisted suddenly blossomed, white flowers blooming in an impossible instant. A younger version of her grandmother appeared beneath it—laughing, holding hands with a man Maya had never seen before. Maya blinked, and they were gone. The tree was bare again. The garden was quiet. She stared at the window, her breath caught in her throat. Had she imagined it? She flipped back through the journal, searching for clues. Page after page told of the garden, of love, loss, and someone named Thomas. She’d never heard of him before. There were poems about waiting, of a love who went to war and never returned. Her grandfather’s name was William. Who was Thomas? Curious and a little shaken, Maya went outside. The wind tugged at her sweater as she walked to the tree. At its base was an old stone, nearly buried in earth and moss. She cleared it with trembling hands. “Thomas Hale – 1922–1944” A date. A name. Real. Her grandmother had never mentioned him. Never once. Yet he was buried in the garden, remembered in poems, and shown through a window that may have held more than just glass. Back inside, the window stood still, silent. Maya sat again, her thoughts spinning. What was the truth of her grandmother’s life? What parts had she hidden in poems? How many of our memories are buried under silence? She picked up the journal and turned to the last blank page. Taking a pen from the drawer, she began to write. Not a poem. A letter. To herself. To her future. To the people who would one day sit by the same window and wonder. And outside, unnoticed, a single white blossom bloomed on the apple tree.
By Muhammad Saad about a year ago in Poets
Poem: The Anthem of Lovers
You are the rose that blooms within my heart, Reviving hope and easing all my pain. You dwell in me, from me you’ll never part, You are my peace, my joy, my sweetest chain. Your eyes, like mirrors of the boundless skies, Shine with a glow more pure than diamond’s gleam. I wandered seas of beauty, seeking ties, Until your love fulfilled my every dream. I shed my tears of love on letters sent, To moonlit skies, where silent longing grew. The gentle moon returned with sweet consent, “Your love shall rise again,” it softly knew. Love is a flame that melts the frozen soul, Yet sweet — the pain it gives, the scars it makes. What harm to hearts that burn to be made whole? Love’s pain creates the dawn that never breaks. You are the breath of morning in my chest, The scent that brings forgotten joy anew. A whisper soft as winds that once caressed The silver bells where dreams like music flew. I loved in you all that I’d never known, About my soul, before your eyes were mine. I thought your being was my very own, And life without you — death, by slow decline. You live within my veins, as ink and fire, The blood of poems, pulse of my desire. How could the stars still shine if you depart? How could my soul find rest when you’re away? I never knew that love would be my art, Until my heart surrendered to your sway. I stand within love’s sea, in silence bound, By passion’s chains, by longing’s endless sound. O night! Your shadow brings her image near, And floods my heart with beauty and with fear. I yearn in silence, though I know the cost — A lover crying for the love he’s lost. I hide my passion deep within my chest, Lest people see my heart and mock my quest. Yet still I dream of you in every place, Your face the moonlight of my lonely space. Sweet memory calls with gentle, fleeting tone, Of times when love was ours — and ours alone. I drank from passion’s cup, a sacred wine, That made my sorrow sing and pain divine. O could there be a path that leads to you, So clear, so straight, so free from all disguise? But love’s a road of thorns that pierce anew, Yet still we walk it, foolish but so wise. I saw in love a message carved in flame, Upon the heart’s cold wall, it wrote your name. Its sighs became the perfume of the air, Reviving hearts that once forgot to care. I loved the silence when your eyes would speak, A speech more soft than any words could seek. I dwelled within each letter that you spoke, Each sound a spark that through my longing broke. Ask not if I could love another’s light — For you are breath, and all my soul’s delight. You are my poem’s birth and its release, I am the story love will never cease. O flower of days, O star of endless night, O hope that shines beyond my mortal sight. I swear my love shall live in secret flame, Hidden, but faithful, constant in your name. Deny me not — my tears are proof and plea, For truth in love is all I wish to be. Between my heart and yours a language flows, That only lovers and the angels know. You dwell in verses like a dream’s soft tone, A child’s pure vision, tender and alone. Love is the birth of poems when they rise, The soul’s own flower under yearning skies. If you are gone, my song will cease to live, My lips grow cold, with nothing left to give. Yet I accept the pain, for love’s true way Is built from tears that cleanse what words can’t say. O source of feeling, I’m a poet bare, Who knows no rhythm when you’re not there. Without your eyes, my poems lose their flame, Their soul, their rhythm, and their name. For every letterorn
By America today about a year ago in Poets
The Pain
If I do not change I only have myself to blame For I am who I am Because of the pain Thank you for reading my work. If you enjoyed this story, there’s more below. Please hit the like and subscribe button, you can follow me on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram @AtomicHistorian. To help me create more content, leave a tip or become a pledged subscriber. I also make stickers, t-shirts, etc here.
By Atomic Historianabout a year ago in Poets
The Knock That Shouldn’t Have Come
The Knock That Shouldn’t Have Come Blurb When a knock echoes through the house at midnight, the narrator thinks it’s nothing more than a prank. But the silence that follows, the footprints on the floor, and the stranger waiting in the bedroom tell a different story. Some doors should never be opened.
By Wings of Time about a year ago in Poets
