Cinquain
The Language of Falling Leaves
🍂 Introduction: When Nature Teaches Us to Begin Again Every season carries its own poetry, but autumn speaks in a language unlike any other. The falling leaves are not just signs of endings—they are whispers of renewal, reminders that change, though sometimes painful, is necessary for growth.
By Nadeem Shah 5 months ago in Poets
The Last Conversation We Never Had
Story The Last Conversation We Never Had I should have said it when we were sitting on that cracked bench in the park, your scarf fluttering in the spring breeze, and I kept staring at you like I’d never see you again. I didn’t know then that I wouldn’t. I thought there would always be tomorrow, another chance to speak, another quiet moment where the world softened enough to hold us both.
By waseem khan5 months ago in Poets
Voices of Truth: The Power of Strong Poetry
Voices of Truth: The Power of Strong Poetry ‎How Bold, Honest Verse Inspires Change and Heals the Soul ‎ ‎In a quiet corner of a community library in East Haven, a group of people gathered every Thursday evening. They weren’t there for a book club or a lecture. They came to share poetry—raw, unfiltered, and true. ‎ ‎It began with one voice. ‎ ‎Two years earlier, a young woman named Lena stood on that same library stage with trembling hands and a notebook filled with pain. She had written poetry all her life but never shared it. After surviving a difficult year—losing her job, ending a toxic relationship, and struggling with anxiety—Lena decided to face her fears. She joined “Open Pages,” a small local event meant for amateur writers. ‎ ‎She read a poem titled “I Am Not My Silence.” The words weren’t polished, but they were real. They spoke of isolation, shame, and the courage to speak out. When she finished, the room was still. Then someone clapped. Then another. Soon the entire room was on their feet. ‎ ‎That night sparked something powerful—not just in Lena, but in everyone who heard her. ‎ ‎Over the months that followed, Open Pages grew. More people came—not just to listen, but to speak. Some read verses about love and loss, others about injustice, racism, and identity. Each poem, no matter the topic, held one thing in common: truth. ‎ ‎One evening, an elderly man named Harold took the stage. No one had ever seen him before. He read a poem about his time in the war, about the guilt he carried for decades, and about how poetry became his way of processing what he couldn’t say out loud. ‎ ‎“I never knew poetry could hold so much truth,” he said afterward. “It was just something I scribbled. But now I see—it’s a lifeline.” ‎ ‎Lena, now the event’s organizer, watched as people of all ages and backgrounds began showing up, notebooks in hand. Some were shy. Some couldn’t even finish reading without crying. But every poem, every voice, left an imprint. ‎ ‎One high school student named Jamal, usually quiet in school, shared a powerful piece about growing up Black in a neighborhood where he felt invisible. His poem, “I Walk Between Worlds,” moved the entire room to tears. Afterward, a teacher in the audience offered him a scholarship to attend a local writing workshop. Jamal later said that writing gave him something he’d never had before—self-worth. ‎ ‎There’s something unshakable about poetry that tells the truth. It doesn’t have to rhyme. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be real. When people write from their core—without sugarcoating, without filters—they tap into a kind of power that resonates with others on a human level. ‎ ‎Strong truth poetry isn’t about shouting or performing. It’s about revealing. It’s about saying, “This is what I’ve lived. This is who I am.” And in doing so, others feel less alone. They see parts of their own story in yours. ‎ ‎Lena often said that poetry was never meant to be caged in textbooks or written only for the elite. “Poetry,” she told her audience one night, “belongs to the people. It belongs to anyone brave enough to be honest.” ‎ ‎Over time, Open Pages became more than an event—it became a movement. A traveling group of poets from the community visited local schools, shelters, and rehabilitation centers, holding workshops that encouraged others to write their truths. They didn’t care about grammar or form—they cared about the message. ‎ ‎One participant at a shelter said, “Writing gave me my voice back. For the first time, I felt seen.” ‎ ‎And that’s what strong truth poetry does. It sees. It listens. It breaks down walls and builds bridges. It allows people to express trauma, joy, identity, and transformation—all in a few lines of verse. ‎ ‎As Lena stood once again on the stage where she first read her poem, she looked out at the now-packed library. There were people standing in the back, leaning against shelves, eager to listen. She smiled, not out of pride, but gratitude. ‎ ‎“This,” she said, holding up her notebook, “is more than ink and paper. It’s survival. It’s healing. It’s truth.” ‎ ‎And as the next poet approached the microphone, the room leaned in—not to critique, not to judge—but to listen. To feel. To understand. ‎ ‎Because in a world that often rushes past pain and hides from honesty, strong truth poetry remains a powerful act of courage—and a light that never goes out. ‎
By Muhammad Saad 5 months ago in Poets
