Acrostic
Whispers of the Morning Light
Whispers of the Morning Light A Celebration of New Beginnings and Endless Possibility The sky exhales a breath of gold, As night retreats and dreams unfold. Soft whispers rise from blades of grass, A gentle hymn as shadows pass. The world, once wrapped in velvet shade, Now glows where morning light has laid. Each dewdrop holds a silent prayer, Of hope reborn from midnight's care. A robin sings on trembling bough, No fear of then—just here and now. Its song, a thread through dawn’s embrace, Weaves courage into time and space. The past may sleep, its lessons done, But see—upon the hills, the sun! It writes in flame across the blue: Today is fresh. Today is true. So rise with heart unburdened, free, Like leaves that dance with destiny. For every ending births a spark— A light to guide us from the dark. And in this hush, this golden gleam, Lie seeds of every shining dream. Begin again, let spirits soar— The morning whispers: “There is more.”
By Muhammad Saad 5 months ago in Poets
Whispers in the Rain
Whispers in the Rain: How Rain Inspires the Rhythm and Beauty of Poetry Rain has always held a special place in the hearts of poets. It’s more than just water falling from the sky; it’s a symphony of sounds, a dance of droplets, and a muse that awakens creativity. For centuries, poets have found inspiration in the gentle patter of rain, weaving its rhythm into their verses and using its presence to evoke emotion, hope, and renewal. On a quiet afternoon, Maya sat by her favorite window, a worn notebook open on her lap and a pen poised in her hand. Outside, the sky was a soft gray, and the first drops of rain began to fall. There was a unique magic in this moment—the world slowing down, the steady rhythm of raindrops tapping against the glass, and the fresh, earthy scent that followed the rain’s arrival. Maya loved rain. It wasn’t just the way it cooled the air or the way it made the world look like a watercolor painting; it was how the rain seemed to whisper stories. Every drop was a word, every shower a stanza, inviting her to listen and write. As the rain intensified, the room filled with its soothing melody. Maya’s pen moved almost by itself, sketching lines that captured the essence of the rain’s song: “A thousand tiny dancers falling from the sky, whispering secrets as they pass by.” The rain, she realized, was like poetry itself—both unpredictable and comforting, simple and profound. It spoke of renewal, washing away the dust of yesterday and nurturing the seeds of tomorrow. Just as a poem uses words to bring emotions to life, the rain used droplets to awaken the earth. Throughout history, many poets have shared Maya’s affection for rain. From the delicate haikus of Matsuo Bashō to the passionate verses of Pablo Neruda, rain has been a recurring symbol—sometimes a metaphor for sadness or longing, sometimes a sign of hope and new beginnings. It bridges the gap between nature and human emotion, inviting us to pause, reflect, and feel. Maya’s favorite poem about rain was by Langston Hughes, who wrote: “Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby.” These words echoed in Maya’s mind as she wrote. The rain wasn’t just a backdrop; it was a companion in her creative journey, encouraging her to open her heart and express her deepest thoughts. Outside, the rain slowed to a gentle drizzle, and sunlight began to peek through the clouds, casting a soft glow over the wet streets and glistening leaves. Maya closed her notebook, feeling grateful for the gift the rain had given her—a quiet moment of inspiration and connection. She stepped outside, letting the cool droplets fall on her face. Each drop felt like a tiny blessing, reminding her that even in the stormiest times, there is beauty and hope. The world was alive, refreshed, and ready to grow, just like her poetry. In that moment, Maya understood that rain and poetry share a timeless bond. Both invite us to listen deeply—to the world around us and to the feelings within us. Both teach us that there is grace in vulnerability, strength in softness, and power in expression. As she walked back inside, Maya carried with her the rain’s message: to embrace every moment, to find joy in the simple things, and to keep writing her own story—one drop, one word, one poem at a time.
By Muhammad Saad 5 months ago in Poets
The Pain
If I do not change I only have myself to blame For I am who I am Because of the pain 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 Historian5 months ago in Poets
The Mind's Melody: Exploring the Psychological Game of Poetry
In a quiet town nestled between hills and sky, lived a teacher named Liana. She was known not just for her love of words, but for the way she made them come alive. Her classroom was filled with sunlight, old books, and laughter—a space where poetry wasn’t just studied, but felt. One autumn morning, she gave her students an unusual assignment: “Write a poem that shows how you feel without saying exactly what you feel.” The students looked puzzled. “Isn’t that what poetry is supposed to do?” asked a boy named Amir. “Exactly,” Liana smiled. “That’s the game. The psychological game of poetry.” The idea of poetry as a “game” intrigued the class. They were used to rhyme schemes and metaphors, but this was different. This was about decoding the self, one word at a time. Over the next few weeks, something incredible happened. One quiet student, Elena, who often sat alone, wrote about a “bird trapped under glass.” It wasn’t until she read it aloud that the class understood: the bird was her anxiety. Her words didn’t name the feeling—but everyone felt it. Amir wrote a poem using only colors—describing a storm as “deep maroon” and laughter as “sunbeam yellow.” Liana pointed out how his mind connected emotions with sensory detail, and how powerful that was. They weren’t just writing poetry—they were unlocking themselves. Liana explained that poetry is one of the oldest forms of human expression. Long before psychology was a science, poetry was already mapping the mind. In haiku, in odes, in ballads—humans poured their fears, hopes, and questions into verse. But more than that, poetry let people process their emotions without always having to explain them directly. “It’s like playing chess with your own thoughts,” she said. “A strategy to understand yourself without overwhelming yourself.” Studies have shown that writing poetry activates areas in the brain related to memory, emotion regulation, and language. It helps people reframe negative thoughts, and in doing so, heal. Poetry is a mirror, a translator, and sometimes—a silent therapist. What makes poetry especially unique, Liana told them, is how it builds bridges between people. A poet in Nigeria can write about longing, and someone in Norway can read it and feel less alone. It’s a universal code—wrapped in rhythm and metaphor—that binds humanity. One day, the class wrote a collaborative poem. Each student added one line, continuing where the last left off. The poem danced between joy, grief, hope, and dreams. In just 18 lines, they had told a collective story—without planning or overthinking. It was honest. Raw. Beautiful. By the end of the semester, even the shyest students were writing poems with confidence. Their grammar improved, yes—but more importantly, they felt heard. Seen. Validated. That winter, the class held a poetry night called The Mind’s Melody. Parents came. Grandparents came. Strangers came. One by one, the students stood at the microphone and read their poems. Some spoke of heartbreak. Others of laughter. One student read a poem about her late grandmother, and half the room cried. But it wasn’t sadness that filled the room—it was connection. Healing. Humanity. Afterward, a parent approached Liana with tears in her eyes. “My son never talks much. But tonight, I feel like I met him for the first time.” Liana smiled. “That’s poetry. It helps us speak in silence.” --- In our fast-paced, digital world, poetry remains a quiet force—simple yet profound. It teaches us to observe, to reflect, and to connect beyond surface-level words. The psychological game of poetry isn’t about winning or losing. It’s about listening—to ourselves, and to others. It’s about decoding the heart’s language when regular speech falls short. So the next time you feel overwhelmed, uncertain, or inspired—pick up a pen. Let the melody of your mind flow. You may just find a poem waiting to be written—and a piece of yourself waiting to be found.
By Muhammad Saad 5 months ago in Poets
