Tag: Poetry

Wrangler’s Call

Beneath the sky so wild and wide,
A Wrangler roars with fearless pride.
Through mountain trails and desert sand,
It carves its path—no map in hand.

The thunder hums beneath its hood,
A beast that tames both stone and wood.
With top rolled back and doors set free,
It whispers, Come and ride with me.

Through rivers deep and valleys steep,
It climbs where lesser souls won’t creep.
Mud on tires, dust in air,
Adventure waits—a dare, a prayer.

The city streets, they cage and bind,
But Wranglers crave the untamed kind.
Where asphalt ends and wild begins,
That’s where the Jeep’s true life begins.

So shift the gears, let engines roar,
Drive till roads exist no more.
For those who crave the open land,
A Wrangler waits with guiding hand.

Snowbound

The fire crackled, sending flickering shadows across the cabin’s wooden walls. Anna tightened the woolen blanket around her shoulders, listening to the wind howl outside like a ghost in mourning. It had been snowing for hours—thick, heavy flakes that turned the forest into a white, featureless wasteland. She hadn’t expected the storm to hit so hard when she came up here for a solitary weekend.

Now she was stuck.

Her phone’s battery had died that morning, leaving her with no connection to the outside world. Not that it would’ve helped much—there wasn’t a signal for miles around. No one knew exactly where she was, except maybe the old man at the general store who’d rented her the cabin. “Storm’s comin’,” he’d said, his voice gruff. “You sure you wanna be up here alone?” She had shrugged off his warning, eager for a break from the noise of the city.

Now, with the snow piling higher by the hour and night settling in, she wondered if she’d made a mistake.

She glanced at the single lantern glowing faintly in the center of the room. Her supplies were limited—just enough firewood to last the night, a few cans of food, and a half-empty bottle of water. Beyond that, she had her wits and her will. The cold crept in despite the fire, and Anna rubbed her hands together, trying to keep warm. She thought about her friends back home, laughing over drinks, warm in their cozy apartments. Would they notice her absence soon? Would anyone come looking?

A sudden noise startled her—a soft thud against the door. Anna’s heart skipped a beat. She stood slowly, every creak of the wooden floor sounding louder in the quiet. She reached for the iron poker by the fireplace and approached the door, breath misting in the cold air.

Another thud. Louder this time.

She hesitated, fear and curiosity warring within her. Taking a deep breath, she unlatched the door and pulled it open a crack.

A gust of icy wind whipped inside, making her shiver. And there, on the snow-covered porch, sat a scruffy dog, its fur matted with frost, eyes wide and pleading. Anna exhaled a shaky laugh, tension melting away as she swung the door open wider. The dog padded inside, immediately curling up near the fire.

“Looks like we’re both stuck here,” she whispered, stroking its head. The dog wagged its tail weakly, grateful for the warmth.

For the first time all day, Anna didn’t feel entirely alone. The storm might rage on outside, but inside the little cabin, there was life, hope, and a spark of warmth in the growing dark.

1965 Ford Mustang

Beneath the sun’s warm amber glow,
A sleek machine begins to show.
Chrome glimmers, paint so pure,
A classic beauty, timeless, sure.

Her gallant form, a pony’s stride,
Freedom roars as dreams collide.
With engines growling, hearts take flight,
A symbol born of pure delight.

The steering wheel—a captain’s helm,
Through winding roads, her driver’s realm.
Windshields framed with the open sky,
Adventure calls, horizons nigh.

From her grille to her racing lines,
She echoes of simpler, golden times.
Rock ‘n’ roll on the radio plays,
Cruisin’ streets in endless days.

She isn’t just a car, you see,
She’s legend, myth, and history.
A ’65 Mustang, bold, refined,
The open road is hers to find.

The Keeper of the Lantern

In a small, snow-covered village nestled deep within a valley, there lived an elderly woman known as the Keeper of the Lantern. Every year, on the eve of the New Year, the villagers would gather in the town square to light the Great Lantern, which symbolized hope, renewal, and the collective dreams of the community.

The Keeper’s role was to guard the lantern and its flame throughout the year, ensuring it never went out. Legend said the flame was ignited centuries ago by a bolt of lightning, gifted by the heavens to guide the village through dark times.

As the New Year approached, a fierce storm swept through the valley. Gale-force winds howled, and icy rain lashed against the windows. The villagers feared that the flame, despite its sheltered glass casing, might finally be extinguished.

On New Year’s Eve, the Keeper, now frail and bent with age, called upon the villagers. She told them, “The lantern’s flame is strong, but its true power comes not from my care alone—it thrives on the hopes and determination of each of you. To keep it alive through the storm, I need your help.”

One by one, the villagers stepped forward, bringing their own small lanterns lit from candles at home. They formed a circle around the Great Lantern, their flames dancing in defiance of the storm. Together, they shielded the central flame, warming it with their collective light.

The storm raged on, but the Great Lantern did not falter. When the winds subsided and the first light of dawn crept over the mountains, the villagers saw the flame burning brighter than ever. The Keeper smiled and said, “This is what the New Year teaches us: Alone, our light may flicker, but together, we shine unstoppable.”

From that day forward, the New Year’s tradition evolved. Each villager would bring their own light, a symbol of their individual dreams and contributions, and the village would unite to rekindle the Great Lantern. The storm had taught them that their strength lay in their togetherness, and every New Year began with a shared promise to illuminate the path ahead for one another.

The Long Winter Nap

Nestled deep in the forest’s heart, where the trees stood tall and silent under blankets of snow, a cozy den lay beneath a massive oak. This den belonged to a bear named Bartholomew, a gentle and thoughtful creature who eagerly awaited his favorite time of year—his long winter nap.

The weeks leading up to Bartholomew’s hibernation were always a flurry of activity. He’d spent autumn feasting on berries, salmon, and honey, building up a warm layer of fat to sustain him through the cold months. As the first snowflakes began to fall, Bartholomew could feel the familiar pull of sleepiness settling over him like a heavy quilt.

Bartholomew wasn’t the only one preparing for winter. The other animals of the forest were busy making their arrangements. The squirrels chattered noisily as they stored acorns, while the foxes dug burrows to escape the icy winds. But unlike his neighbors, Bartholomew faced winter with serene anticipation.

“Why do you sleep so long?” asked Pip, a curious field mouse who had scampered into the bear’s den one chilly evening.

Bartholomew chuckled, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. “Ah, little Pip, it’s not just sleep—it’s a dream of peace. When the world is frozen and quiet, I rest and let the forest heal itself. By spring, everything feels new again, and so do I.”

Satisfied with the answer, Pip wished the bear a good nap and scurried away.

As the days grew shorter, Bartholomew made his final preparations. He lined his den with soft moss and pine needles, ensuring it was warm and snug. When the first major snowstorm blanketed the forest in silence, Bartholomew yawned mightily, stretched his massive limbs, and settled down into the nest.

At first, his dreams were vivid and playful, filled with memories of sunny meadows and shimmering streams. But as time passed, his dreams grew deeper, and he floated through visions of stars, moonlit skies, and the rhythmic heartbeat of the earth itself.

Outside, winter unfolded in its full splendor. Icicles glistened in the pale sun, and frost etched delicate patterns on the bare branches. The forest, so often alive with sound, fell into a hush that matched Bartholomew’s slumber.

Months later, the warmth of spring began to creep into the forest. The snow melted into rivulets that gurgled and danced through the undergrowth, and the first shoots of green pushed through the thawing ground. Bartholomew stirred, his nose twitching at the scent of fresh earth and blooming flowers.

With a final, hearty stretch, Bartholomew lumbered out of his den. He blinked against the brightness of the sun and listened to the chatter of returning birds. The forest was alive again, renewed and bustling, just as he had dreamed it would be.

Bartholomew smiled, ready to embrace the adventures of spring, knowing that his long winter nap had been well worth it—for him and the forest he called home.

The Reluctant Warrior

Cancer was a quiet monster that moved silently through the streets of ordinary lives, choosing its battles without rhyme or reason. It crept into homes, workplaces, and hospital rooms, wearing countless faces: a lump, a shadow on an X-ray, a sudden wave of exhaustion.

For Emily, Cancer came one autumn afternoon, disguised as a routine doctor’s visit. She had gone in for a persistent cough but left with a diagnosis that felt like a storm cloud swallowing her sky. Stage II lung cancer. She was only 34, a non-smoker, and a lover of morning jogs and green smoothies. She thought cancer happened to other people.

At first, she fought like someone drowning—thrashing, gasping, begging for a lifeboat. The nights were the hardest, filled with the hum of machines and the quiet sobs she tried to muffle in her pillow. Her parents stayed brave for her, their smiles stretched thin over faces carved with worry. Her friends rallied, delivering meals and awkwardly hopeful text messages.

But Cancer had a way of isolating its victims. No matter how many people surrounded her, Emily felt alone in the labyrinth of her fears. The “what-ifs” loomed like shadows: What if this treatment doesn’t work? What if I’m not strong enough? What if I don’t make it?

Then, one evening in the oncology ward, Emily met Carl, a wiry old man with a weathered face and a booming laugh that seemed utterly out of place. He was hooked to an IV, just like her, but his eyes sparkled like he knew a secret.

“Stage IV,” he said when she asked about his condition, his tone nonchalant. “But I’m not dead yet, so why act like it?”

Carl introduced her to a world beyond her diagnosis. He taught her to focus on moments, not milestones. To savor the bittersweetness of hospital coffee, how the sun warmed her skin on the rare days she could step outside, and the sound of her niece’s giggle over video calls.

Cancer was a thief, yes, but it couldn’t steal everything.

The treatments were grueling: rounds of chemo that left her weak, hair falling in tufts that she tried to laugh off with a “pixie cut’s in, right?” But Emily found a strength she never knew she had. It wasn’t the kind of strength that looked like stoic bravery—it was raw, messy, and deeply human.

Months later, Emily rang the bell in the cancer center to mark the end of her treatment. The cheers of the nurses and patients echoed down the sterile hallways. Carl was there too, though his prognosis hadn’t changed.

“You won,” he told her, clapping her back.

“No,” Emily said, her voice trembling. “We did.”

Carl passed away a few weeks later, but his lessons stayed with Emily. The cancer had scarred her body, changed her life, and taken friends she had met along the way. But it had also taught her to cherish every breath, every heartbeat, and every moment of connection.

Emily wasn’t just a survivor; she was a warrior—a reluctant one, but a warrior nonetheless.