Poetry Everyday

[Edna]

Paper Children​

We built castles out of cardboard,
and believed they’d never fall.
We were kings with scraped knees,
queens of dust and laughter.

Then the years came,
softly cruel —
replacing innocence with “responsibility.”

Now our castles are offices,
our crayons turned to pens
that sign away hours
for someone else’s dream.

And sometimes,
when the world is quiet,
I still smell the glue
of paper crowns —
and remember the joy
of ruling nothing,
but feeling infinite.

 

[Edna]

A Feast for the Hungry​

They say we all have the same sky,
but some stand under roofs,
and some under rain.

The rich dine with silver,
the poor with silence.
The earth gives enough,
but greed demands more.

I’ve seen a child
smile over half a meal —
and a man curse
because his glass was not full enough.

How strange,
that those with less
often carry more light.
Maybe the soul grows
in the empty spaces
we fear to enter.

 

[Edna]

Dreams That Refuse to Die​

Some dreams grow old
but never fade.
They live in cracked notebooks,
half-written songs,
eyes that still search for morning.

The world laughs at dreamers —
calls them foolish,
calls them lost.
But it is the dreamers
who plant the seeds
that save us.

So chase your impossible.
Even if it breaks you,
even if no one believes —
the stars are not so far
from those who dare
to keep reaching.

 

[Edna]

The Machines Do Not Sleep​

Screens glow like artificial moons,
lighting rooms
where silence once lived.

We scroll through strangers’ smiles,
forgetting our own.
Our hearts beat in pixels now,
our souls upload themselves
to timelines.

Once,
we watched sunsets.
Now,
we watch notifications.

And yet,
beneath all the noise,
something in us still whispers:
remember the grass,
the wind,
the warmth of a voice.

The machines do not sleep —
but we must.
Or we’ll forget
we were ever human.

 

[Edna]

The Last Autumn Leaf​

The wind bends the trees,
and leaves fall like whispered confessions.
Each one is a life ending softly,
a memory that drifts across the cold earth.

I stand among them,
barefoot,
listening to the quiet decay.
Autumn does not apologize
for its endings.
It only reminds us
that every death
is the promise of spring
somewhere beyond our eyes.

 

[Edna]

Letters Across the Horizon​

I write to you in the spaces between waves,
in the sigh of wind through old rooftops,
in the silence of a night too long.

Distance bends the heart,
twists it into shapes it never knew,
but still it beats — stubborn, alive.

I imagine you reading these words
and wonder if my soul
touched yours across the miles.
Love is not measured in proximity;
it is measured in endurance,
in the quiet courage
to hope,
to wait,
to feel despite absence.

 

[Edna]

The Hollow Inside​

Loneliness sits in my chest
like a tenant who refuses rent.
It hums,
it sighs,
it pulls the light from rooms
I thought were mine.

Grief is a mirror,
reflecting a version of me
that no one sees.

Yet even here,
beneath the weight of emptiness,
I feel the pulse of something stubborn —
a rhythm that says:
endure. breathe. rise.

Pain is the teacher
that reminds me
I am still alive,
even when life feels absent.

 

[Edna]

The Soul’s Compass​

Before the first breath,
the soul wandered
through stars it did not yet name.

It felt eternity
stretch like a river,
and yet,
it returned to flesh
to learn the rhythm of time,
the gravity of grief,
the sweetness of fleeting joy.

Faith is not a monument.
It is the compass
we follow blindly,
through deserts, storms, and nights
we cannot yet see the end of.

Death may come,
but the soul remembers the journey,
and even in absence,
its echo shapes everything.

 

[Edna]

The Dragon in the Mist​

In the valley where fog hides the river,
a dragon sleeps beneath the roots of mountains.
No one speaks its name,
and yet the air hums with its dream.

I step carefully through shadows,
aware that reality is thinner here,
that imagination bends
where the mind dares not tread.

The dragon rises —
not with fire,
but with the truth
that wonder persists
even in the bones of the world,
even when reason tells you
there is nothing left to believe.

 

[Edna]

Midnight Rain​

The rain falls softly,
as if the sky is crying
for reasons it cannot name.

Streets glisten with borrowed light,
silent rivers cutting through the dark.
I walk beneath the trembling sky,
letting every drop remind me
that even storms
need to break
to breathe.

Some nights,
the rain sounds like forgiveness.
Other nights,
it sounds like the world
trying to remember
how to feel.

 

[Edna]

Where Your Silence Lives​

Your silence has a sound.
It echoes in the corners of my ribs,
a hollow place
where your name still whispers.

Love is strange —
it does not die cleanly.
It leaves fingerprints on the soul,
bruises on the memory,
ghosts in the heart
that refuse to leave quietly.

I still reach for you
in moments when the world grows cold.
Not because you’re here,
but because I’m not ready
to forget the warmth
you once were.

 

[Edna]

The Weight I Carry​

Some days,
I am a mountain —
silent, unmoving, unbroken.

Other days,
I am a single grain of sand,
crushed by the breath of the world.

Pain doesn’t always roar.
Sometimes it just sits,
like a stone in the chest,
quiet but heavy.

But still,
I rise.

Broken,
tired,
aching —
yet somehow still rising.

There is courage in that,
even if no one sees it.

 

[NavyRet]

Edna, I look forward to reading each and every one of your poems. Your words are worthy of Poet Laureate status and I am forever amazed at the depth and breadth of the feelings your writing evokes. Thank you for all the wonderful poetry.
​

 

[Edna]

When the Soul Speaks in Shadows​

My soul speaks
in a language older than breath,
a whisper woven from light and scars.

I ask it for answers,
but it replies with questions —
ones I am afraid to hold.

Why do we hurt?
Why do we hope?
Why do we keep walking
through a world
that breaks and heals us
in the same heartbeat?

Faith is not certainty.
It is choosing to believe
when silence feels louder
than scripture.

 

[Edna]

The Street With No Names​

There are roads in every city
where dreams walk barefoot,
and hunger sleeps beneath blankets
made of last year’s newspapers.

Children grow up fast there —
too fast —
their laughter thin,
their eyes older than the sun.

The world passes them by
with headphones on,
scrolling,
hurrying,
forgetting.

But every forgotten corner
holds a story —
raw,
unpolished,
human.

And sometimes,
those stories carry more truth
than the tallest buildings
or the brightest screens.

 

[Edna]

Winter Thinks in White​

Winter speaks in quiet breaths,
soft as memory turning cold.
The earth sleeps beneath a frozen quilt,
and even the wind walks slower.

Trees stand like patient saints,
holding nothing, wanting nothing,
their branches bare as unanswered prayers.

Still —
beneath the frost,
roots dream of April.
Even silence holds a secret thaw.

 

[b1u3eyes]

Thanks @Edna tons for keep my topic alive.

I am officially back after exhausted for few months. I promise.

There are no happy endings.
Endings are the saddest part,
So just give me a happy middle
And a very happy start.

Shel Silverstein, Every Thing on It

 

[Sienna175]

Thanks @Edna tons for keep my topic alive.

I am officially back after exhausted for few months. I promise.



Shel Silverstein, Every Thing on It