Friendship
Whispers of Humanity
In a small valley cradled by ancient hills, there was a village where people rarely spoke in haste. Words mattered here. Every sentence was weighed like a stone before it was placed into the river of conversation. This wasn’t due to silence or fear—but reverence. The villagers believed that words, especially those shaped with care, held power. At the heart of the village stood an old tree known as the Listening Oak. Its roots curled like open hands, and its branches reached skyward as if it were in constant prayer. Beneath it, once a week, the villagers gathered for the “Evening of Whispers,” a tradition as old as the village itself. On these evenings, people recited poetry—written by themselves, their ancestors, or passed down through memory—each verse shared like a seed planted in the soil of community. Lina, a quiet girl of sixteen, had always attended but never spoken. She loved the way words danced in the air during the gatherings, how an old man’s rough voice could carry a tender truth, or a child’s scribbled rhyme could soften hearts hardened by time. She carried a leather-bound notebook everywhere, scribbling poems no one had seen. Her mother, Mira, once the most eloquent poet of the village, had lost her voice years ago after Lina’s father died in a mining accident. Mira hadn’t spoken since. She sat each week beneath the Listening Oak, eyes bright with unspoken memories, hands resting on her lap like unopened books. One golden autumn evening, the Evening of Whispers began like all others. The breeze was gentle, the air sweet with fallen leaves, and the lanterns flickered as villagers took turns speaking their truths. A boy read about losing his pet bird and the freedom it might now enjoy in the skies. A woman recited a lullaby written by her grandmother. An elder shared a haiku about the ache of growing old. As the night deepened, silence fell. Then, for the first time, Lina stood up. Her knees trembled, but she held her notebook like a shield and walked to the base of the tree. People turned to watch, their expressions gentle but curious. She opened her notebook, cleared her throat, and read: > “We are made of breath and brokenness, And yet we bloom. In silence, we carry stories That wait for the wind.” Her voice quivered, but she continued: > “I have watched my mother Speak without words Sing in her silence And teach me the language Of listening.” People stilled. The breeze hushed as if the world leaned in. > “Let us not forget That pain, when spoken, Can become a bridge. And poetry— Poetry is how we walk across.” She closed her notebook. For a moment, all was still. Then—soft clapping. A gentle rustle of approval. Some nodded, others wiped quiet tears. But Lina looked only at her mother. Mira, still silent, had risen to her feet. Her eyes shimmered, and for the first time in years, her lips parted. A breath. Then a word: “Thank you.” Gasps rippled through the crowd. Not for drama—but for the quiet miracle of a voice returning home. From that night on, Lina’s poems became a thread in the tapestry of the village’s tradition. Her voice, once hidden, helped others find theirs. Mira didn’t speak often, but she began to hum old songs, and when she did, others would join in. Years later, people would still tell the story of the girl who whispered truth beneath the Listening Oak and reminded them that poetry isn’t just for beauty—it’s for healing, for remembering, for becoming whole again. And every time a new voice rose in the circle, someone would smile and say, “Another whisper of humanity.”
By Muhammad Saad about a year ago in Poets
Letter To The Sunset Watchers
People say they love watching sunsets. They gaze upon the burning sky for a few moments. They think, “Wow, that’s a pretty sunset” — maybe even verbalize it. They alert their friends at the spectacle, provoking an impromptu photo-op. With their backs facing the sunlight, they snap a couple pictures. Some dimple-revealing grins, some pursed-lipped glances, some dead-panned profile pics.
By DJ Nuclear Winterabout a year ago in Poets
A Year of Loves Many Faces
I want that mistletoe love. That stand in the snow singing and not feel the cold type love. That can't fall asleep, waiting for morning to see you kinda love. That it's a lot of work but do it anyway, because of the joy it brings...I want that Christmas kinda love. I want that grandma in the kitchen on Thanksgiving cooking kinda love. That only put the cornbread in cast iron skillet type love. The you better not go in my pot, or get popped kinda love. That I'm making everyone's favorites kinda love! That sneak you a little bowl full on the side when no one is looking kinda love. I want that scared but do it anyway kinda love. Like that trick or treat fake hand in a bowl. That dark and light coming together kinda love. That run from house to house without getting tired kinda love. Yeah that Halloween giving with joy and laughter kinda love. I want that labor day kinda love. The fight to keep it and show up for each other everyday kinda love. That Rosie the Riveters passion and determination kinda love. That bond together in solidarity like the local unions kinda love. I want the fireworks, bbq, matching outfits, red, white, and blue. That fourth of July kinda love. That kids playing with sparklers for the first time kinda love. That, I'm not afraid to play with fire because it could be fun kinda love. I want that everyone don't know yet! But when they find out, it's a party kinda love. I want that smack talking, fist in the air kinda love. That Red, Black, and Green, with bamboo earings, showing off that black girl magic kinda love. Yeah that's that Juneteenth kinda love. I want that protection and security kinda love. That hold me down right or wrong kinda love. That wanting to make you proud kinda love. That sitting and listening to those same stories from back in the day kinda love. That You were my first love. Yes that Fathers day kinda love. I want that feel so bad after a fight, mourn, makeup, and celebrate us again kinda love. That sit with you for hours while bringing you flowers kinda love. That Wishing you were still here when you're away. That reminiscing on the past, yes that's that Memorial day kinda love. I want that kiss my forehead and hold me when I'm scared kinda love. That kiss my booboo and stop the pain kinda love. That you can do no wrong in my eyes kinda love. That proud of every small step you make kinda love. That I dare someone to mistreat you, cause I'm on my way kinda love. That on my knees praying daily for you, yeah that's that Mother's day kinda love! I want that put on your sundays best, and praise him in the hallway kinda love. That standing room only, cause the church house is full kinda love. That leaving all your worries at the altar while the choir sings kinda love. That won't he do it, let's go eat now. That's that Easter Sunday kinda love I want that call off work. Just to put on silly clothes and hats and day drink. That go from bar to bar screaming "kids me in Irish" kinda love. That hug, laugh, and cry with total strangers. That hold my hair while I throw up. Thats that St Patrick's Day kinda love I want that pink and red hearts, chocolates, and roses everywhere kinda love. That loves in the air. That man on the corner selling flowers and teddy bears kinda love. That passing love notes and candy to my class mates in 4th grade. Yeah that's that Valentine's Day kinda love! I want that fight for what's right, March side by side even when others don't like us kinda love. That peaceful protesting fighting for our rights, yeah that's that Martin Luther king kinda love. I want that shooting guns and kissing at midnight kinda love. That let's make resolutions together while sipping champagne. That glitter and confetti that you can't get out our hair and clothes kinda love. That it's been a long year but I'm glad I got to do it with you, yeah that's that New Year Day kinda love
By Daisy Lashaeabout a year ago in Poets
