Friendship
Whispers Between Dawn and Dust
Sometimes life teaches us gently and not loudly. I wrote this poem on a quiet morning when the world hung between what had been done and what was only unfolding. It's about clinging to hope, letting go of the baggage we no longer bear, and learning to honour the frail beauty of now. And in that quiet space of calm, we discover that the small lessons are the deepest.
By Leyvel Writesabout a year ago in Poets
The light house 🏡
The lighthouse had always stood like a sentinel on the edge of the cliff—tall, steadfast, and unyielding against the raging sea. To most, it was just a tower of stone and light. To me, it was home. And more than that, it was my grandfather. He was the last keeper of this lighthouse. In a world that had already moved on to automation and machines, he remained—climbing the spiral stairs every evening, trimming the wick of the great lamp, and watching the sea with a patience that felt almost holy. As a child, I didn’t understand why he worked so hard. “Why does it matter?” I once asked him. “The ships can see the shore. They don’t need you.” He smiled in that quiet, knowing way of his and said, “A light doesn’t ask who it saves. It just shines. That’s its purpose.” At the time, I didn’t really grasp it. To me, it was just an old man in a lonely tower. But as I grew older, I realized he wasn’t just tending to a light—he was tending to hope. Storms and Stories Some nights, storms would roll in like beasts unleashed. I remember one night in particular—thunder splitting the sky, waves climbing so high I thought the sea would swallow us whole. I was terrified, clinging to him, begging him to stay inside. But he shook his head. “If the light goes out, someone out there may never find their way home.” So he climbed, step after step, into the howling dark. His lantern swayed, his hands steady, his face set with determination. I watched from the window, heart hammering, until the great beam finally cut through the storm again. That night, a fishing boat made it back safely to the harbor. I’ll never forget the look on my grandfather’s face as he watched its lights flicker into the distance. It wasn’t pride, not exactly. It was something deeper—like peace. The Empty Lighthouse Years passed. The world changed. Computers took over. The lighthouse was fitted with automation, and keepers were no longer needed. My grandfather stayed as long as he could, but eventually, the day came when he had to leave. He aged quickly after that. Maybe it was the silence, or maybe a man built for storms cannot survive the calm. And then, one winter night, he was gone. The sea was restless the evening we buried him. I remember sitting on the rocks near the tower, staring at the beam as it swept across the horizon. The lighthouse stood strong, its light steady. But to me, it felt unbearably empty. I thought of all the times he told me, “A light doesn’t ask who it saves.” And for the first time, I understood—he hadn’t just been talking about ships. He had been talking about life. About kindness. About love. Returning Home Now, years later, I find myself back at that cliffside. The lighthouse no longer needs a keeper, but still, when the beam circles across the dark sea, I feel him beside me. I hear his voice in the wind—steady, strong, loving. “Shine, no matter what. Someone out there needs it.” And I realize that I don’t need a tower to keep his promise alive. Every act of compassion, every moment I choose to help someone instead of turning away, is my way of carrying his light. Because lighthouses aren’t just towers by the sea. They are the people who love us enough to guide us through our storms, even when they cannot walk beside us anymore. And as long as I live, I will keep his beam burning. Not from the top of a cliff, but from within my heart.
By ✦•············• Freelancer •············✦about a year ago in Poets
The Whisper of Words
M Mehran The town of Eldridge had a secret. Not the kind hidden in dark corners or whispered in hushed tones, but a quiet magic that lingered in coffee-stained pages, fluttered between the lines of letters, and hummed softly in the hearts of its people. Eldridge was home to poets—real, unapologetic dreamers who believed in the power of words, even when the world outside scoffed at them. Among them was Clara, a young poet with hair the color of autumn leaves and eyes that saw beyond the obvious. She lived in a small apartment above a bookstore, where the smell of ink and paper was as comforting as sunlight. Her mornings began with the ritual of writing, though the words often refused her, hiding behind the veil of fear and doubt. Some days, her notebook remained stubbornly blank, and she would stare out the window, watching the town awaken, wondering if she was the only one who felt both too much and not enough. Then there was Elias, the older poet, whose reputation had spread far beyond Eldridge. His verses had a way of slicing through the pretense of life, leaving raw truth in their wake. He wore a coat that smelled faintly of cedar and had a habit of tapping his pen against his chin while he thought. Many admired him, but fewer understood the loneliness that accompanied genius. Poets, after all, were wanderers in their own minds. One rainy evening, Clara wandered into the little café at the edge of town, where poets often gathered to read aloud. The café smelled of coffee and rain, a combination that felt like home. She clutched her notebook tightly, unsure if she wanted to read her work or hide it forever. Elias was there, as usual, scribbling something on a napkin, his eyes reflecting the storm outside. “Your first time?” he asked, without looking up. Clara nodded, her throat tight. “I—yes, I think.” He gestured to an empty seat. “Then sit. Listen. Or speak. Or do nothing. It doesn’t matter. Here, words are free.” And so, she listened. One by one, the poets shared their hearts. There was Marla, whose poems were like gentle rain, soft and comforting. There was Jonah, whose words hit like lightning, leaving the room electrified. Each poet offered a piece of themselves, a sliver of truth that made the ordinary seem extraordinary. When it was Clara’s turn, she hesitated. Her pen trembled as she opened her notebook. The café seemed to hold its breath. And then she read. Her words were hesitant at first, fragile as glass, but soon they grew, winding around the listeners, capturing the storm outside and the quiet fear inside her. She spoke of love lost and found, of dreams deferred but not forgotten, of the invisible threads that connected strangers and friends alike. By the time she finished, the room was silent, not out of judgment, but awe. Elias leaned back, smiling faintly. “Not bad,” he said simply. It was the highest praise she could have received. After that night, Clara became a fixture in Eldridge’s poetic undercurrent. She discovered that poetry wasn’t just about rhymes or clever metaphors; it was about courage—the courage to feel, to expose, to speak even when the world seemed deaf. And Eldridge thrived because of it. But not all days were easy. Poets wrestled with shadows more often than others. Clara sometimes doubted if her words mattered, if her voice could ever be heard beyond the quiet walls of her apartment. And Elias, despite all the accolades, struggled with the fear that one day, he would run out of words entirely. It was during one particularly cold winter that Eldridge faced its greatest challenge. The town library, a sanctuary for poets and dreamers, announced it was closing due to funding cuts. The poets were heartbroken. Without the library, where would they gather? Where would the words live? Clara had an idea. “We’ll save it,” she said, her eyes blazing. “We’ll show them that words matter.” Together, the poets of Eldridge organized readings, workshops, and open mic nights. They filled the streets with words, letting poems drift from windows, hang from lamp posts, and echo in the town square. People who had never read a poem before found themselves captivated, moved, inspired. The library doors stayed open, not because of money, but because the town realized the magic it had almost lost. Years later, Clara would remember those nights as the ones that defined her, the moments when poetry was more than just ink on paper—it was rebellion, comfort, and connection all at once. Elias would pass his notebooks to her, trusting that she, too, would carry the torch. Poets, she learned, are not just writers. They are listeners, dreamers, and fighters. They are the quiet rebellion in a world obsessed with noise. And Eldridge, with all its rain, coffee, and scribbled pages, remained proof that words, when spoken with courage, could change everything. Because in the end, poetry is not about perfection. It’s about honesty. And the poets of Eldridge, ordinary yet extraordinary, had that in abundance. The town slept peacefully each night, cradled in the whispers of words, knowing that as long as there were poets, hope, truth, and beauty would never vanish.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Poets
