Verses in the Morning Light
A Poet’s Awakening at Sunrise — Reflections on Hope, Clarity, and the Promise of a New Day
Verses in the Morning Light
A Poet’s Awakening at Sunrise — Reflections on Hope, Clarity, and the Promise of a New Day
The sky was still tinged with indigo when Leona climbed the steps of the old rooftop. A hush lay over the city like a wool blanket, muffling the world before it stirred. She carried only a thermos of tea and her leather-bound notebook—frayed at the edges, swollen with ink and dreams.
It had become her quiet ritual. Each morning, just before sunrise, she came to this rooftop above the bakery where the air still smelled faintly of flour and warmth. She came not for the view, though it was beautiful, nor for solitude, though it soothed her—but for the light. The first, fragile light that made everything seem possible.
This morning, the horizon promised brilliance. The faintest glow kissed the tops of buildings and spilled across the clouds in streaks of lavender and gold. She smiled quietly, setting her notebook on her lap and taking a sip of tea. The warmth curled through her chest.
Leona hadn’t always been a morning person. For years, she wrote in the late hours, when the world was heavy with silence and streetlights buzzed like secrets. But something had changed in her—gently, gradually, the way a river changes course without sound. After a season of grief, when her mother passed, her nights had grown restless, filled with dreams that made her eyes sting. She’d started waking before dawn, not on purpose, but because something in her needed the quiet clarity of beginning.
And it was there, in the rising light, that poetry returned.
At first, it came in whispers: fragments, single lines, images she didn’t understand until later. A robin on a fencepost. The smell of wet pavement. Her mother’s humming, distant but warm.
Now, the words came more easily. The pain was not gone, but it had softened, like light filtering through curtains. She flipped open her notebook to a blank page and wrote:
> “Today arrives like a breath held overnight—
soft, trembling, full of forgiveness.”
She paused, watching a flock of birds rise suddenly from a distant rooftop. The city was waking slowly: a window slid open across the street, a kettle whistled, a bus grumbled to life far below. And yet, this rooftop still felt like its own world—suspended between sleep and possibility.
Leona remembered something her mother used to say, on the rare mornings they sat together sipping tea before the day began: “The sunrise doesn’t ask for applause. It just shows up, brilliant and quiet.” As a child, she hadn’t understood it. Now, it lived in her bones.
She wrote another line:
> “The sky does not compete with yesterday. It simply begins again.”
There was comfort in that. In knowing that each morning, the sun would return without asking permission. That no matter how fractured the previous day had been, sunrise brought a fresh canvas. It didn’t erase anything, but it gave you space to keep going.
Leona glanced at her hands—ink-stained, ringless, real. She had been through seasons of doubt, loneliness, and aching uncertainty. But here, wrapped in sunlight and birdsong, she felt something unfamiliar and welcome: peace.
A few more lines spilled onto the page—something about light painting rooftops, about shadows retreating into alleys. She didn’t force the rhythm; it would find its shape in time. For now, it was enough to catch what the morning offered.
The sun crested the horizon fully, casting gold over the bricks and glass. For a moment, the city glowed—not loud or triumphant, but with a soft kind of courage. The kind that doesn’t shout but stands tall anyway.
Leona closed her notebook and leaned back, letting the warmth touch her face. This was why she came. Not just to write, but to remember. That light returns. That beginnings are real. That even in silence, life speaks.
She breathed in deep. The scent of rising bread drifted from the bakery below, and somewhere, a child laughed.
Leona smiled.
She had poems to write, yes—but more than that, she had mornings to witness. And in each of them, she’d find pieces of herself once thought lost.
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Whispers of the Pen
Whispers of the Pen The Inspiring Journey of a Poet Who Turned Words into Wonder Under the dappled light of late afternoon, Elijah Kane sat on a weathered park bench, his old leather-bound notebook resting gently in his lap. A breeze rustled the nearby trees, carrying with it the scent of late summer and the faint, far-off laughter of children. To a passerby, he looked like any quiet soul enjoying the calm of the golden hour. But in truth, Elijah was deep in conversation—with memory, with rhythm, with language itself. It had been a long road to this quiet moment. Elijah’s story as a poet didn’t begin in a classroom or a library. It began in a cramped apartment above a corner store in a neglected part of the city. Raised by his grandmother, who had little but her stories and boundless love, Elijah grew up listening to the poetry of everyday survival. She told him tales from their ancestors—of struggle, of joy, of migrations and dreams deferred. But she never called them poems. "I just talk with a little music in my voice," she used to say, smiling as she stirred her tea. Elijah began writing at thirteen. At first, they were just scraps of lines—half-thoughts, broken metaphors, feelings he didn’t know how to say aloud. He wrote in secret, hiding the pages under his mattress. He never imagined himself a poet. Poetry, he thought, was for scholars and people with book deals. Not for someone like him, who had to work two part-time jobs in high school just to afford pencils and notebooks. That changed the day his English teacher, Ms. Thompson, found a forgotten page in his locker. It was a poem titled “City Sky”, about how the stars in the city were hidden, just like the dreams of those who lived beneath them. Expecting a reprimand for skipping gym, Elijah was instead met with stunned silence. “You wrote this?” she asked. Elijah nodded, suddenly wishing he could disappear. “This is… Elijah, this is real. This is poetry.” From then on, Ms. Thompson became his first mentor. She brought him books by Langston Hughes, Mary Oliver, Pablo Neruda. She showed him how to read poetry—not just with the eyes, but with the heart. She taught him that poetry wasn’t about being perfect—it was about being honest. Years passed. Elijah went to community college on a scholarship, studying literature while working nights at a diner. His poetry evolved—growing bolder, more intricate. He started performing at open mics, trembling at first, then standing taller with each recitation. His words, once hidden in the shadows of his notebook, began to echo in rooms full of strangers. Eventually, he published his first collection, “Voices Between Buildings.” It was raw and unpolished, a mirror of his early life. Critics called it “gritty and graceful,” “a revelation of urban lyricism.” He was invited to read at universities, to speak to students who reminded him of himself. But for Elijah, success was never the point. It was always about connection. About capturing the quiet beauty in overlooked places—the way grief lingered in old apartment walls, or how a smile on a crowded bus could feel like a lifeline. Now, in his late thirties, Elijah returned often to this small park by the river. He said the trees whispered ideas to him. “Nature doesn’t judge,” he once joked during a radio interview. “You can read your worst drafts to a willow, and it’ll still applaud with its leaves.” Today, the words came slowly, like distant thunder before a storm. He scribbled, scratched out, rewrote. A single line emerged that felt just right: “I used to run from silence, now I write it into sound.” He smiled. As the sun dipped lower, a young girl walked by with her mother. She paused, watching Elijah with curiosity. “Are you writing a story?” she asked. Elijah looked up and nodded. “Sort of. I’m writing a poem.” “About what?” “About how the world speaks, even when it’s quiet.” The girl grinned. “That sounds pretty.” She skipped away, leaving Elijah with a warmth he hadn’t expected. He looked down at his notebook again. The page had more room. The story wasn’t finished. Maybe it never would be. But that was the beauty of it. Poetry, he had learned, was never about having all the answers. It was about asking the right questions—with courage, with heart, and with a pen that listened
By Muhammad Saad 6 months ago in Poets
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