Ekphrastic
Verses by the Sea
Verses by the Sea â ââ A Poetâs Peaceful Reflections on the Shore â âBeneath a sky of amber light, âWhere sea and silence softly meet, âA poet finds their soul take flight âWith every wave that greets their feet. â âThe ocean hums a gentle tune, âIts rhythm calm, its meaning deepâ âA lullaby to sun and moon, âA cradle where the muses sleep. â âThe pen moves slow, then starts to glide, âAs thoughts like seagulls rise and soar. âNo need to rush, no need to hideâ âEach line becomes a whispered shore. â âThe breeze, a friend with salty breath, âTurns pages like the hands of time. âThe tide erases fear of death, âAnd life returns in every rhyme. â âSo here the poet sits, aloneâ âYet held by sky, by sea, by sand. âWith verses carved from wind and stone, âAnd truth unfolding in their hand. â
By Muhammad Saad 4 months ago in Poets
What is poetry
The Window â âMaya sat by the window of her grandmotherâs old cottage, a steaming mug of tea in her hands and a wool blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The autumn wind whispered through the trees outside, scattering golden leaves across the garden like forgotten memories. It had been years since sheâd last been here, and everything smelled like timeâdust, dried lavender, and something older, quieter. â âThe window was the same. â âIt framed the garden like a painting. Ivy crept along the wooden sill. As a child, Maya believed the window was magical. Her grandmother used to tell her that if you stared through it long enough, you wouldnât just see the gardenâyouâd see what the garden remembered. â âBack then, it felt like a story to help her sleep. But now, at twenty-eight, sitting in the same chair her grandmother used to rock in, Maya wondered if there was more truth in her grandmotherâs stories than she realized. â âShe reached for the journal she found in a drawer earlier that morning. It was bound in worn leather, its pages filled with neat handwriting and old poems, each dated, each signed: L.R.âLilian Rose, her grandmother. She flipped through them, stopping at one that seemed different. It was titled âThe Window Remembers.â â âShe read the poem aloud, her voice soft, hesitant: â â"Through pane of glass and timeâs slow thread, âThe window watches whatâs long dead. âBut those who sit and truly see, âMay glimpse what once was, used to be." â âAs she read the final line, a chill ran down her spine. â âShe looked out again. â âThe garden shimmered, just for a second. The apple tree that now stood bare and twisted suddenly blossomed, white flowers blooming in an impossible instant. A younger version of her grandmother appeared beneath itâlaughing, holding hands with a man Maya had never seen before. â âMaya blinked, and they were gone. The tree was bare again. The garden was quiet. â âShe stared at the window, her breath caught in her throat. Had she imagined it? â âShe flipped back through the journal, searching for clues. Page after page told of the garden, of love, loss, and someone named Thomas. Sheâd never heard of him before. There were poems about waiting, of a love who went to war and never returned. Her grandfatherâs name was William. Who was Thomas? â âCurious and a little shaken, Maya went outside. The wind tugged at her sweater as she walked to the tree. At its base was an old stone, nearly buried in earth and moss. She cleared it with trembling hands. â ââThomas Hale â 1922â1944â â âA date. A name. Real. â âHer grandmother had never mentioned him. Never once. Yet he was buried in the garden, remembered in poems, and shown through a window that may have held more than just glass. â âBack inside, the window stood still, silent. â âMaya sat again, her thoughts spinning. What was the truth of her grandmotherâs life? What parts had she hidden in poems? How many of our memories are buried under silence? â âShe picked up the journal and turned to the last blank page. â âTaking a pen from the drawer, she began to write. Not a poem. A letter. To herself. To her future. To the people who would one day sit by the same window and wonder. â âAnd outside, unnoticed, a single white blossom bloomed on the apple tree.
By Muhammad Saad 4 months ago in Poets
