excerpts
Poets Media isolates the most poignant, powerful, and exquisitely composed verses and quotes in the universal poetry canon.
The Case of Vanishing Cookies
A sneaky little sparrow, So bold and so free, Stole cookies for breakfast— Now who’d disagree? I’m back at the bakery. After the last time, I wanted to see if the sparrow is a regular culprit here. So here I am, sitting in the bakery with a slice of shepherd’s pie, keeping an eye on the open window. I’m pretty sure the sparrow has a nest in the tree outside. The jolly old baker is humming a tune as he bakes the cookies—chocolate chip, yum. After putting the first batch on the counter to cool, he heads back to finish the rest. When the baker returns, he adds the cookies to the cardboard boxes. The boxes sit on the counter, filled with treats, but I still don’t see the culprit. The baker goes back to kneading the dough—when it happens. The sparrow flies in, landing on an empty cardboard box. Turning his little head, he decides what to have for breakfast. He hops onto the box with cookies, grabs one in his beak, and flies away. But it doesn’t stop there—he flies in again, snatching another cookie. In total, three cookies disappear, leaving only one behind in the box. When the baker returns, the confusion and disbelief on his face are clear. I have to pinch myself to keep from bursting into laughter. I guess my question is answered—the sparrow is a regular here.
By Staringaleabout a year ago in Poets
No Face
I’m a man with no name No face My mind disconnected My heart lost in space A fantastic phantom animating atoms 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
When Horror Came to Speak
He came with tales like coiling smoke,With fingers long as funeral notes.His eyes, two bottomless pits of dread,Where lost men fall and never tread.He sat by me — not near, but in,The horror of him not on his skin —But in his breath, in every sound,That reached my soul and spun it 'round.He whispered once, he whispered twice,Each word a wound, each tone like ice.He told of screams that no one hears,Of children born to silent fears.Of mirrors cracked not by the hand,But by the soul that could not standIts own reflection through the years —He showed me death, and called it peers.But I, a writer bold and bare,Have seen the ghosts that men can't bear.My pen is not a sword or wand —It is a mirror, cold and fond.It does not lie, it does not break,Though trembles in the quake of ache.I did not flinch; I did not kneel.I drank the dark and made it feel.For I have watched as others fell —Not into graves, but deeper hells:The hells of guilt, regret, and pride,Where laughter runs away to hide.I’ve seen men paint their love with lies,And call their truths a grand disguise.They bow to flesh, and mock the soul —And call the broken-hearted whole.The horror-man, he laughed at me,A hiss that echoed endlessly."You do not fear me — you are cursed,To see me clear, and feel me first.The ones who scream are not the doomed —It’s those who hear but still resumeTheir daily play of light and sin,That bear the rot that lies within.”Oh yes, I heard him. Loud and deep.He crawled inside the halls of sleep.But he found there a place too bright —My dreams are drawn in sacred light.For though I walk with death and pain,I do not dance within the chain.I see — I write — I bleed — I feel.But I do not pretend what’s real.He told me how the hearers change,How horror makes their logic strange.They build their houses out of dread,They wash with guilt, they dream of red.They stop to speak, to think, to try —And slowly let their moments die.Fear, he said, is not to scream.It is the theft of hope and dream.He told me of a girl who sleptWith every sorrow that she kept.Who looked into a cracked old glassAnd prayed her childhood wouldn’t pass.He told me of a mother tornBetween the man she loved and scorned.He told me of a priest who criedAt every “Amen” he denied.He gave me hell in every tale —And yet I stood, both firm and pale.He asked, “What makes you stand so still,While others break and flee my will?”I said, “You feed on minds unlit,On souls that hide, on hearts that quit.But I am not the one you seek —My strength was forged when I was weak.”He recoiled not in hate — but awe.As if a thing he couldn’t draw.I saw in him not hate, but need —To be believed, to be decreed.For horror has its own desire —To show the soul its secret fire.But I, the writer, did not burn —I wrote instead, and let it turn.And then he vanished like a sigh,Not with a bang, but soft goodbye.No claps of thunder marked the end,No screaming wind, no broken bend.But in my heart, he left a song —Of those who hear and yet stay strong.He cursed me once, then blessed me thrice —For hearing him — and not think twice.Let me speak now, to you, the Hearer:Do not think fear is just a face,It has a home in every place.In laughter, in a lover’s kiss,In every sacred thing you miss.It walks with you, it speaks in doubt,It lights your dreams and snuffs them out.But still — you choose what you obey,And what you write at end of day.I chose the ink, not blade or bell.I chose to know and not to dwell.To gather horror in my hand,And make it part of where I stand.For men are weak, and men are brave —And both are buried in one grave.It matters not if you are scared —But if you write while you are bared.And now, some truths for you to keep:The beauty man forgets in hasteIs always etched in what he faced.The faith he trades for fleeting gainReturns in dreams, with ghostly pain.The lies he tells to feel aliveBecome the tombs where truths don’t thrive.The love he gives, then takes away,Still waits for him — on judgment day.I have no fear of ghost or ghoul.I fear the heart that plays the fool.The man who loves and yet betrays.The child who learns the crooked ways.The preacher who forgets to pray.The artist who won’t walk the gray.The friend who speaks with hollow breath.The soul who’s lost the fear of death.He came again last night in dream,No longer dark, but silver gleam.He sat, not as a beast or bane,But like a storm that knows the rain.And I — I asked him, soft and clear,“What is it that you want from hearers?”He said, “Just this — to be believed.To show the wounds that man’s conceived.Not every ghost is dead and gone.Some live in flesh, in dusk and dawn.And if your pen can mark them true,Then horror’s task is done through you.”And so I write — with fire, not fright.To speak the dark and birth the light.I walk with horror not in chain,But as a shadow to explain.For every man must one day choose —To dance with death, or death refuse.And when the tale is writ and done,I’ll stand — the hearer who did not run.
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Poets
Acne, Dizziness, and a Watermelon Feast: A Day in A Life of Medical Student
Hello, everyone! Today during our OPD rotation on campus, we encountered a patient complaining of head pressure, bouts of vertigo, and acne. Disclaimer: The patient consented to sharing this information. Back to the post: You might wonder why I’m mentioning acne when it seems unrelated to head symptoms. That’s where you’d be wrong. After conducting a mandatory scan (standard for any head-related symptoms), we proceeded with the examination. The conditions were related. How, you ask? Well, the patient hadn’t washed his hair for a month, relying instead on dry shampoo for a "fresh" feel and using gel/mousse for styling. Now, you might think, What’s wrong with that? The answer: everything. Many forget that the skin is an organ responsible for filtration. Since the patient didn’t use proper running water and shampoo to cleanse his scalp, buildup occurred. Initially, the excess oil and grease seeped into the facial skin, triggering acne and later blepharitis (an itchy lash condition caused by oil buildup—in simple terms). Next, the scalp follicles became blocked due to the accumulation. To put it simply, the scalp couldn’t breathe, leading to pressure in the head and occasional dizziness. We immediately recommended washing with a gentle clarifying shampoo. Surprisingly, the head symptoms vanished as if by magic! A follow-up a week later revealed a clear, acne-free face. I’m sharing this because many people experience similar issues but are prescribed acne ointments, which often don’t help much. The takeaway? The root cause might be something else entirely. For some, even three days without washing their hair can trigger the same reaction. Always consider the whole body — everything is interconnected. And to those who claim acne is primarily caused by impurities and pollution: that’s not entirely true. If that were the case, children would be the ones suffering from acne. Sometimes, the solution is simple—no need to overcomplicate it. _____ After Campus: A Sweet Reward
By Staringaleabout a year ago in Poets
