Stream of Consciousness
The Road Between Us
I remember the day you left, though I try not to. It was autumn, and the leaves were the color of old fire. The air smelled like apples, woodsmoke, and something else I couldn’t name — maybe grief. Maybe goodbye. You didn’t say much. You never did. Just packed your worn green duffel bag, the one with the broken zipper, and looked out the window like the world outside had something better to offer.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Poets
The House Beyond the River
The river curled like a silver thread at dusk. I used to stand by it, bare feet in the mud, listening to its secrets. It never spoke loudly, only whispered — about rain in far-off hills, about fish darting through the reeds, about things that lived and died and left no trace.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Poets
Allowing me to apologize
Words come and go; some stay in anyone’s mind, especially those words that hurt, that make anyone tremble, feel hurt, to be dismantled without power, feel vulnerable. Words could hurt and create a poison state, a going in circle situation, and even worse they could bring hate where love was before. Those words were used for years as well as the grob parameter. Words hurt, words that come from frustration, dark places, revenge, discussions, fights and misunderstanding.
By Lasha Deselaabout a year ago in Poets
Breakfast With The Quack Pack
Hi everyone! Today’s weather is lovely, so I decided to have breakfast in the park. Humming a tune, I bustled around the kitchen to prepare my meal—a toasty sandwich, a cup of freshly brewed aromatic pistachio coffee, and some fruit slices. After packing everything into a bag, I headed toward the door. At the last second, I stopped short—I’d forgotten to leave a note! So here it goes: Dearest Mother, Good morning! I’m just stepping out to the park to enjoy a light breakfast admist the morning air. Fear not, for I shall return promptly by 8:00am. Ever your loving daughter, ;) With a smiley emoticon in the end, I stuck the note to the fridge using a magnet (gotta love those things) and closed the door behind me, skipping my way to the park. On the way, I grabbed some snacks—just in case I made any new friends from nature. Who will it be? I wondered. A pretty bird, a squirrel, a bunny, or maybe even a duck? When I arrived, the park was quiet, with a few elderly couples feeding birds or simply enjoying the morning. Not wanting to intrude on their moments, I searched for an empty bench and found one near the bridge overlooking the pond. Sitting down, I took a sip of coffee and watched the white ducks glide across the water. Peaceful. …Until one duck waddled out of the pond and marched straight toward me. "Quack," it said, its gaze locked onto my coffee cup. I broke into a nervous sweat. "Sorry, buddy, no coffee for you." Trying to appease it, I added, "But I did bring snacks!" Ripping open the pack, I tossed some its way. Suddenly, an entire flock of ducks swarmed me, quacking loudly. I scrambled to my feet, trying to shoo them back, but they herded me into a corner. Defeated, I scattered the rest of the duck food on the ground. Once they dispersed, I sat back down and took a bite of my sandwich—only for one bold duck to break from the group and hop onto the bench, eyeing my food greedily. These ducks are developing a taste for human food! I thought, amused. With a sigh, I surrendered a tiny piece of my sandwich. And that’s how I spent the rest of my breakfast—enjoying the morning breeze in the lively company of very demanding ducks.
By Staringaleabout a year ago in Poets
Pages & Wings
Top of the morning to you all! Rise and shine! The sun is blazing, breakfast is cooking, and the day is ready. I just finished my breakfast and am now heading to my reading corner—by the window, where sunrays stream in, surrounded by potted flowers and a soft, grassy-green carpet. Here I sit, opening my book. Natural light is far better than lamplight, after all. I settle in, determined to finish the book, but today, the world seems to have other plans. An orange-and-black butterfly lands on my page, fluttering its wings, pulling my attention from the words. The windows and door are closed… How did it get in? With a wave of my hand, it leaves the book, and I return to reading. But the butterfly seems starved for attention, fluttering around as if to say, "Pssst! Notice me!" Realizing I won’t get any reading done, I mark the page, close the book, and mutter, "You win." Now, I watch as the butterfly parades around the blooms—a refreshing sight. As it flutters, the flowers sway gently, as though dancing along, helping it steal the show. I sprinkle the blooms with water and simply sit there, soaking in the beauty of the flowers and their subtle scents—far lovelier than any perfume. And that’s how my morning unfolded: in the company of butterflies and blossoms. The sun shone bright, the book lay wide, I turned the page with joy and pride. But wings of orange and black took flight— A dancing, fluttering, sly delight! My reading plans? Completely foiled! The blooms and breeze—we’ve won, they smiled. So book now shut, I sighed, "Alright," And let the morning bloom… just right.
By Staringaleabout a year ago in Poets
