Acrostic
Whispers of the Old Woods
The villagers said the forest had a memory. Not the memory of men, who forgot quickly and argued loudly, but a patient, listening memory, older than the river, older than the hills, older than the stones lining the village square. It hummed quietly at night, a sound like wind brushing against the trees, or perhaps the echo of old voices. No one ventured deep into the woods after dusk—not without reason. And those who did often returned changed, carrying the strange weight of stories they had not told themselves. Elara was not like the others. She had grown up on the edges of the forest, her window facing the trees that seemed to sway even without wind. Her grandmother would warn her, “The forest listens, child. It remembers your footsteps. Speak carefully, or it will answer in ways you cannot understand.” But Elara had a hunger for stories, a thirst for the unseen. One autumn evening, when the sunset painted the sky in molten gold, Elara walked along the familiar path into the forest. She carried nothing but a small lantern and her notebook. She wanted to hear what the forest had to tell her. The air smelled of wet leaves and moss. Shadows stretched long, reaching for her feet like dark fingers. And then, just as she reached the oldest oak in the heart of the woods, she heard it—a voice, soft and melodic, like someone humming an ancient lullaby. She froze, her breath forming tiny clouds in the cool air. “You come for stories,” the voice said. It seemed to drift from the bark of the tree itself. “But stories have their price.” Elara swallowed her fear and nodded. “I will pay it.” From the darkness, shapes began to appear—figures that were neither fully human nor entirely shadows. They danced slowly, circling the oak, their movements silent but precise. Elara realized they were the forest’s memory made flesh: the ones who had been lost to time but remembered still. “Long ago,” the tallest shape whispered, its voice like the rustle of dry leaves, “a child like you wandered here, seeking tales of courage and folly. She spoke, she laughed, she cried. And in return, the forest kept her, just as it will keep you, if you are not careful.” Elara’s hand gripped her notebook. “I seek only the stories,” she said, “not to be taken by them.” The figures paused, their eyes glimmering like starlight. Then one stepped forward, extending a hand made of woven branches. “Very well,” it said. “Listen closely.” And Elara listened. They told her of the fox spirit who outwitted the hunters, leaving only riddles behind. They spoke of the river maiden, who wept pearls into the stream and taught mortals the language of water. They whispered of the old king of the forest, whose crown of leaves had turned to ash, leaving only the wind to carry his commands. Each story twisted in her mind, strange yet familiar, like remembering a dream she had almost forgotten. Hours—or perhaps minutes, for time had little meaning here—passed. When she finally looked up, the figures were gone, and the oak stood silent, ancient as ever. But in her notebook, the stories were written, as if her pen had moved on its own. She returned to the village at dawn, carrying the forest’s memory with her. When she shared the tales, the villagers listened with wide eyes. Some laughed, some wept, some shook their heads and muttered about imagination. But Elara knew the truth: the forest had spoken, and she had heard it. Years later, when her own children grew old enough to walk among the trees, she would tell them to listen carefully. “The forest remembers everything,” she would say, “the good, the bad, and the forgotten. It speaks to those willing to hear—and sometimes, it answers in ways you cannot foresee.” And at night, when the wind rustled through the leaves, she would hear it: faint whispers, like the echo of a hundred old voices, singing stories meant for those who dared to walk beyond the edge of the known. In the forest, stories never die. They only wait, patient as stone, ready to find a listener willing to remember.
By Jhon smith24 days ago in Poets
Fire That Keeps Us Turning
Within the quiet chambers of minds— of elders and of children still learning— unsaid intentions flicker and breathe, moving in time with the pulse beneath our ribs. They bind us to a center we rarely name, a living knot that refuses to loosen. Voices rise like distant chants, echoing through memory’s hollow halls. A soft refrain repeats what we already know— that stories never truly end. Sacred words circle endlessly, uncovering truths we thought were buried, pulling us forward with naked hands. We do not know where the road will bend. The spiral unwinds without warning. Still, we grip the wheel and sail on, searching for something solid to stand upon. A wild flame settles into a guide, and parted waters stretch wide enough for courage to pass through. Our riches are not counted in gold, but in lessons carved by heat and time. From the living core of existence, through chance sparks of rhythm and motion, a revolving fire awakens, setting our direction alight. Above us, stars stack themselves endlessly, each one a witness to the burning night. At their glow, minds soften, souls align, and something ancient stirs between us. The turning flame gathers its strength there, lifting our spirits into motion once again. The wisdom earned along this path is paid for in resistance and resolve. Those once pursued become the keepers of truth, bearing both scar and insight. They inherit the chase they once feared, moving forward with eyes that finally see. Change survives because it is fed. The fire never sleeps—it adapts. Life reshapes itself in glowing fragments, revealing new designs in the blaze. We are raised inside destiny’s furnace, formed like art pressed from human clay. Our riches are not counted in gold, but in lessons carved by heat and time. From the living core of existence, through chance sparks of rhythm and motion, a revolving fire awakens, setting our direction alight.
By LUNA EDITH24 days ago in Poets
A Christmas Acrostic Poem
Christmas is the time to celebrate, and why not celebrate, and why not celebrate with an acrostic poem to celebrate the season. This photo is when we used to decorate my front yard with lights for the Christmas season, which we don't do anymore since I got sick.
By Susan Payton25 days ago in Poets
