Ekphrastic
Whispers Beneath the Sun
Whispers Beneath the Sun A Gentle Tale of Letting Go and Growing Brighter The field had always been hers. Not by deed or name, but by memory. She had come here as a child, skipping through tall grass and golden wheat, her laughter carried on the wind like song. It was where she had whispered her dreams to the sky and buried her first heartbreak beneath the old willow tree. Now, she stood still in the same field, the wind much quieter, the air thick with the scent of late summer. The sun, dipping low, cast long shadows that danced like ghosts of yesterday. She could feel them — all the versions of herself that had once passed through here. The girl who hoped. The girl who hurt. The one who healed. In her hand, she held a single dandelion — white, soft, fragile. It had grown wild at her feet, a quiet survivor among the fading grasses. She smiled at it, gently cupping it like a secret. The world was louder now than it had ever been when she was young. But in this place, silence still hummed sweetly beneath the surface, just loud enough to hear what really mattered. She closed her eyes and made no wish — not this time. Wishes had their place, and hers had been many. Some had come true. Some had drifted away. But now she no longer needed wishes to move forward. Just breath. Just steps. With the softest exhale, she released the seeds into the wind. Tiny white stars, they floated up, caught in the golden light, dancing higher and higher. She watched them until they disappeared, not sad, not afraid, just aware — that every release is both an ending and a beginning. Once, she would have chased them. Now, she let them go. She turned toward the path that led away from the field, a narrow trail barely visible between the tall grass. She had walked it many times before, but this time felt different. Not heavier, but more honest. Her heart was still full — not of regret, but of remembrance. Every step forward carried a story behind it. She thought of him — the one she had met beneath the willow. How their hands had fit so easily together. How his laugh had made her feel like spring inside. And how, when the seasons changed, they hadn’t known how to hold on. He had gone before the frost, leaving words unspoken and letters unread. There had been tears, of course. Long nights curled into pillows, wondering what she lacked. But time, that gentle sculptor, had shaped her sorrow into something else. Not joy, exactly. Not quite peace. But understanding. She had learned that some people are meant to be chapters, not endings. And that didn’t make them any less beautiful. The wind picked up slightly, tugging at the edges of her coat. She smiled again — half wistful, half real. The sun brushed her cheek like a kiss, and for a moment, she imagined it was him. Not haunting her, but wishing her well. Behind her, the seeds danced still — not seeds anymore, but beginnings in the making. Ahead, the sky widened, painted in strokes of orange and lavender. The world was waiting. She walked. Not with certainty, but with quiet courage. Because there are moments in life when you do not need to know what comes next. You only need to trust that you’re ready for it. The path bent slightly, curving toward a hill she had never climbed before. She looked back once — at the willow, at the field, at the place that had held her sorrow gently, like a friend — and then, with the kindest farewell, she whispered: “Thank you.” Then she climbed. At the top, she stood tall, the world below her stitched with rivers and roads, homes and hopes. The sun touched the horizon, setting not in sadness, but in promise. She opened her arms just slightly, as if to catch the light. Somewhere, far below, the last of the dandelion seeds settled into soil. And in time, they would grow. Just like her.
By Muhammad Saad 5 months ago in Poets
The Power of Poetry: Words That Uplift and Inspire
The Power of Poetry: Words That Uplift and Inspire In a quiet town nestled between hills and rivers, lived a young girl named Maya. She was known for being shy, the kind of person who listened more than she spoke. While other kids her age played noisy games or shared loud laughter, Maya found comfort in silence—and in something many overlooked: poetry. It began when she stumbled upon an old book in her grandmother’s attic, filled with poems written in careful cursive handwriting. The cover was worn, the pages yellowed, but the words inside felt alive. The first poem she read ended with the line: "Even in darkness, light remembers the way." Something stirred in her. It was as if the poem had been written just for her. From that day on, Maya carried that book everywhere. She began writing her own poems too—about clouds, dreams, the sadness of losing a friend, and the joy of watching morning dew sparkle like tiny diamonds. She found that poetry helped her understand her own thoughts, even the ones that felt too big or complicated to say out loud. But Maya wasn’t the only one discovering the quiet strength of poetry. Across town, Mr. Thompson, a retired teacher, had started hosting weekly poetry readings at the local library. What began as a small gathering of three people soon grew into a community event. Teenagers, parents, grandparents—even people who’d never written a poem before—started attending. The space became a sanctuary for expression, where feelings that were often buried under busyness or fear were finally given voice. One evening, Maya stood up to read a poem she had written titled “Growing Quietly.” Her hands trembled as she approached the microphone. The room fell silent. Then, in a clear, steady voice, she read: “Not every flower blooms in spring, Some take their time, in silent waiting. But when they do, the world will sing, In awe of quiet strength creating.” There was a pause. Then came gentle applause, not just out of politeness, but from genuine admiration. People weren’t clapping for a performance—they were celebrating honesty, vulnerability, and the beauty of words that heal. After the reading, an older woman approached Maya with tears in her eyes. “That poem,” she said, “made me feel seen. I’ve spent most of my life thinking I bloomed too late. Thank you for reminding me I still can.” This is the quiet power of poetry. It does not shout. It doesn’t demand attention. But it listens, reflects, and offers light in unexpected ways. Poetry isn’t just for the pages of schoolbooks or dusty libraries. It lives in music lyrics, in journal scribbles, in bedtime rhymes, and even in social media captions. It’s in the way we describe love, loss, joy, and fear. And for many people, like Maya, poetry becomes a way of understanding the world—and themselves. Studies have even shown that reading and writing poetry can reduce stress, improve mood, and help people cope with emotional challenges. In classrooms, it teaches empathy. In therapy, it becomes a tool for healing. In prisons, it opens doors to self-reflection and growth. Poetry reminds us that our stories matter. It gives voice to the quiet, the unheard, and the overlooked. It turns pain into beauty and makes joy feel eternal. Maya continued writing, not for fame or recognition, but because poetry helped her stay connected—to herself and to others. Eventually, she helped start a school poetry club where students from all backgrounds shared their words. Some wrote about their families, some about their fears, and some just wrote nonsense that made everyone laugh. But all of it mattered. Years later, Maya became a published poet. But even more than the books she wrote, she cherished the letters from readers saying her poems had helped them feel less alone. In her own quiet way, Maya had become proof that poetry—soft, simple, and powerful—can change lives. --- Poetry’s Gentle Lesson We live in a fast-paced world, where noise often drowns out meaning. But poetry invites us to slow down, to listen closely, and to find beauty in small things. Whether written in a journal, shared in a classroom, or spoken aloud in a cozy library, poetry is a reminder that words, when used with care and truth, have the power to uplift and inspire. So the next time you’re unsure, overwhelmed, or simply searching for light—pick up a poem. Or better yet, write one.
By Muhammad Saad 5 months ago in Poets
Between the Lines of Rain —
Rain has always carried a language of its own. For some, it is music, a lullaby for weary souls. For others, it is grief, the sky weeping when words are too heavy to speak. For me, rain has always been a mirror—reflecting not only the world outside but also the storms within.
By Nadeem Shah 5 months ago in Poets
The Language of Falling Leaves
Introduction: When the Trees Begin to Speak Every autumn, when the air turns crisp and the trees begin to shed their leaves, the world transforms into a living poem. Golden, crimson, and amber leaves dance through the air before resting gently on the ground. To many, it’s just a seasonal shift. But if you listen closely, you’ll hear something deeper — the language of falling leaves.
By Nadeem Shah 5 months ago in Poets
