heartbreak
They can break your heart, but they can't break your soul; poetry about lost love that comforts and uplifts.
Songs of Heat and Rain
O love, this heat— the sun ascends with fierce delight, yet rivers brim, lakes still run deep, and moonlight soothes the weary night. We'll bathe at dawn, and in the dusk sip sweetened wine on garden grass, while music flares and laughter spills, as hours of fire and passion pass. Where chambers echo splashing joy, and sandal melts upon the skin, the gems like moonstone cool the dark— the summer calls the heart within. Upon the rooftops lovers lie, where breeze and scent together twine, they drink, they kiss, they sing, they sigh, enthralled by jasmine, heat, and wine. Their silks are loose, their cinchlets gold, with tassels that play hide and seek. Their pearls slip soft on scented skin, and sandal cools each flushed red cheek. With crimson feet like lacquered art, and anklets singing silver tunes, they walk like swans with curving grace, beneath the burning afternoon. Their laughter rings, their glances tilt, and beauty blooms like twilight’s face— the Love-god stirs within their gaze, reborn in every time and place. The wind, now thick with scented balm, whispers with fans of peacock plume, and as it stirs the pearls and strings, desire wakes from spring’s old tomb. The moon, once proud, grows shy and pale before the maidens’ sleeping glow, ashamed to show his spotted face before the flawless light they show. But not all hearts can bear the flame— the earth is scorched, the dust is blind, the wanderers, torn from their loves, find even sky and step unkind. The lion rests; his thirst is deep, the elephant forgets his feud. No battle now, just breath and heat— their fury dulled, their strength subdued. Peacocks fold their radiant fans, ignoring snakes within their shade. The fire burns so high and fast— it levels all the foes we made. A frog, near mad with thirst, takes rest beneath a serpent’s hooded dome. Both unaware, yet side by side— each seeks the other’s venomed home. Boars root the mud in desperate sleep, while wind and flame their backs inflame. The wildfire leaps through every bough, and paints the forest walls with flame. Buffaloes reel, their tongues outstretched, birds drop from branches, limp with heat. Monkeys hide in vine-dark caves, the world retreats in swift defeat. But even now, my songbird love, amid the fire, amid the sweat— the lotus blooms, the jasmine sings, the moon on water shimmers yet. So let us drink through molten nights, beneath the stars, beneath the skies. With music, touch, and garlands bright, we’ll melt in summer’s softest cries. The sky unfolds in drifted greys, a hush before the music starts; then thunder rolls, the heavens weep, and water dances upon hearts. Fields awaken in emerald sweep, each drop releasing earthy breath; and rivers rise, ecstatic, wide, embracing earth in silken caress. The lotus lifts its rain-washed face, its petals dripping jeweled light; frogs intone their mellow hymn, a chorus born of dew and night. On rooftops lovers seek the rain, their laughter mingled with the storm; in fragrant air they press, they kiss, while wind and wet their senses warm. Fresh blossoms tremble on the trees, their scents are lush with wet-born dreams; and incense drifts from lacquered halls, where amber flames reflect in streams. Silks and shawls cling soft and damp, their hues the mist’s own whispered tones; bare feet imprint upon wet stone, each step a pulse in earth’s deep bones. They sip the wine beneath the roof, each sip a spark of sunlit wine; they stay till midnight calls their names, until the clouds break, and they intertwine. The bells and drums, the flutes that sing, they echo through the glistening air; the Love-god breathes a softer note, a tender pulse in lovers’ care. New life unfurls in lavish green, and hope restores the world’s lost grace; so let us bathe in summer’s gift, and love the monsoon’s cool embrace.
By Dipayan Biswasabout a year ago in Poets
Message of Condolences For Those Who Lost Their Family Members On India Plane Crash. AI-Generated.
To the hearts left broken, to the arms left empty, To every mother who still sets the table for a child who won’t return, To every father who now searches the sky, not for planes but for peace,
By taylor lindaniabout a year ago in Poets
The First Time We Forgot to Feel
The first time I cried,I was a breath wrapped in silence,not shame.A mother’s lap—a temple.A father’s palm—a planet.Even pain had poetry back then.They say, the first time is divine.Unrepeatable.Like the first fire we touched,and learned: it burns.But modern man,he walks through fireand calls it home.I remember the first time I lied—it wasn’t for greed,nor to gain.It was fear—a soft, trembling beastasking me to survive.But the first time we lied and felt nothing—Ah, that was modern.That was industrial.That was branded in chrome and Wi-Fi,and no one wept.The first time we loved—yes, I recall it clearly.Love wore no labels,spoke in clumsy, sacred stutters,hands sweating truthlike a prophet too young to preach.But now,Love comes with terms and conditions.It expires in inboxes,like spam in the soul.We match. We swipe. We ghost.We call this progress.The first time we touched art—do you remember?Finger-painting the chaos of our hearton grandmother’s wall,and calling it masterpiece?She smiled. She knew.But now,Art is a code,filtered in aesthetics,algorithm-approved beautywithout blood.We don’t make art—we manufacture content.The first time we questioned God,He didn’t burn us.He listened.He waited.But the first time we replaced Himwith trends and influencers,He vanished from our eyeslike a lost bookmarkin the holy textwe never finished.And now,we mock what we once bowed to.We drown in debatesand stay thirsty for wisdom.The first time I stood against injustice—I trembled,but my spine remembered Eden.My voice was untrained,but it struck like thunderin the courtroom of conscience.Now?We share a post,forget by lunch,and pat ourselves for braveryfrom the comfort of the couch.The first time we saw death—it wasn't in films.It wasn’t sanitized.It smelled, it wept, it cracked something holy in us.We asked: What lies beyond?Now we ask: How many likes did their tribute get?The first time we kissed—it wasn’t perfect.Teeth clashed, breath battled,but our souls danced barefooton the edge of forever.Now,We kiss like rehearsed lines.We love like we're waiting to leave.We marry contracts,not hearts.I recall the first time I saw the starsand believed they were watching me.I prayed without words.My faith wasn’t a religion—it was awe.But now,We mock mystery.We dissect meaning.We laugh at wonder.Our telescope grows sharperas our vision dims.We are the sons of prophetsand daughters of poets,but we walk like orphansabandoned by meaning.The first time I read a book—not for school,but to escape,to bleed into the inkand come out wiser—I met myself between the margins.Now,We scroll.We skim.We forget.The first time we failed—we cried.But we learned.Oh, how deeply we learned!Failure was a teacherdressed in ashes.Now,Failure is a meme.We don’t fail.We “rebrand.”The first time we heard music—not noise,but soul,something that made the bones weep—we knew we were not machines.But now,Beats without depth.Noise without nuance.Songs with no sadness.And hearts with no echo.The first time we lost someone—it was not just a person.It was a universe gone.We remembered every breath,every laugh,every unfinished sentence.Now?We archive them.Filter them.Forget them.We let death trend and die again.The first time I prayed—I wasn’t told how.I just fell inward.There was silenceso loud,even angels paused.But modern man—he prays for Wi-Fi.For views.For viral resurrection.We traded altars for screens.Sincerity for sarcasm.Soul for sale.The first time I apologized—I meant it.I bled it.It was more than a word;it was humility singing in the ribs.Now?We type: "Sorry if you were hurt."And call it closure.The first time I was alone—I wasn't lonely.Silence was a symphony.I met the stranger insideand he spoke truthsthe world had forgotten.But now,Solitude terrifies us.We fear our own thoughts,so we bury themunder noise and narcissism.The first time I held a child—I trembled again.Life was reborn in my arms.That small weightheld every answer I ever sought.But we raise childrenwith screens,with fear,with deadlines,not lullabies.We are men of ambition,but not of purpose.Women of brilliance,but not of peace.We do everythingfaster.Sharper.Cheaper.But never first—like it matters.Because the first time we feelis the last time we’re human.And I ask you now,dear reader,have you rememberedyour firsts?Or have you edited themout of memory?The child in you still weepsfor the first snow,the first “I love you,”the first time you meant itwhen you said:“I’m afraid.”But we have become menwho wear armor of ironyand womenwho bury love in logic.We are the speciesthat forgot to feel.The generationthat laughs at depth.The civilizationthat celebrates the hollowand shuns the whole.And yet,the first time I wrote this poem—I felt something again.I remembered.So maybe,maybe you will too.
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Poets
Whispers of the Canvas
The Art of Beginnings In the vibrant city of Bellhaven, where cobblestone streets hummed with artists and dreamers, the Bellhaven Community Center was a haven for creativity. Elise Harper, a 28-year-old art teacher with a knack for seeing beauty in chaos, arrived to teach her first evening class. Her curly black hair was pinned back, and her overalls were splattered with paint, a badge of her passion. Her brown eyes scanned the room, hopeful yet nervous, as she prepared to teach adults who’d signed up for her “Art for the Soul” course.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Poets
