Latest Posts by j-i-poetry - Page 2
i care btw. i care abt the song ur listening to or the bug u saw or how u just got outta the shower or how ur happily hanging out w ur friends or how ur kinda sad or how good was the meal u just had or ur fav character from an indie game nobody knows or if u chugged down some water. i always will
Idk who needs to hear this (probably everyone) but your body is a good body. Even if you don’t like the way it looks or people have made you feel bad about. Literally all bodies are good bodies. Have a good day and don’t forget to be kind to yourself and your body.
last list of "beautiful" words for 2024
to try to include in your next poem/story
Asterismal - of or relating to asterisms or constellations
Astichous - in botany, not arranged in rows
Astroite - a radiated or star-shaped mineral or fossil
Bloodflower - a tropical herb (Asclepias curassavica) with orange-red flowers
Diapasm - perfume of powdered aromatic herbs sometimes made into little balls and strung together
Diapason - a burst of sound
Diarize - to keep or write in a diary
Diatomin - a yellow or yellowish brown pigment found in certain algae and diatoms
Equant - of, being, or relating to a crystal having equal or nearly equal diameters in all directions
Gradine - one of a series of low steps or seats raised one above another; a shelf at the back of an altar on which candlesticks and flowers are placed in a Christian church
Intervert - to turn to a course or use other than the proper one; misuse
Kippage - an excited or irritated state; commotion, confusion
Kithe - to make known
Notionate - fanciful, notional; headstrong, stubborn
Perimorph - a crystal of one species enclosing one of another species
Peripeteia - a sudden or unexpected reversal of circumstances or situation especially in a literary work
Quaesitum - something sought for; end, objective
Rounceval - something very large; huge
Senecio - any of a large genus (Senecio) of widely distributed composite plants that have alternate or basal leaves and flower heads usually with yellow ray flowers
Senectitude - the final stage of the normal lifespan
Tragedienne - an actress who plays tragic roles
Urceolate - shaped like an urn
Urostege - a scale on the underside of the tail of a snake
Urushiye - a Japanese color print in which the dark colors are printed with a lustrous medium commonly considered to be lacquer
Windflaw - a gust of wind; flaw
If any of these words make their way into your next poem/story, please tag me, or send me a link. I would love to read them—always.
More: Lists of Beautiful Words ⚜ Word Lists ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs
A List of "Beautiful" Words: Brown
for your next poem/story
Adust - scorched, burned
Auburn - a moderate brown
Beige - of a color that is light grayish-yellowish brown
Biscuit - a light grayish-yellowish brown
Bronze - a moderate yellowish brown
Castaneous - of the color chestnut
Chestnut - a grayish to reddish brown
Cinnamon - a light yellowish brown
Cocoa - a medium brown color
Drab - a light olive brown
Infuscation - darkened with a brownish tinge
Khaki - a light yellowish-brown
Mahogany - a moderate reddish brown
Russet - a reddish brown
Rust - a strong reddish brown
Sepia - a brownish-gray to dark olive-brown color
Sorrel - a brownish orange to light brown
Tan - a light yellowish brown
Umber - a moderate to dark yellowish brown
Walnut - a moderate reddish brown
More: Lists of Beautiful Words ⚜ More: Word Lists
Between 183 and Liberty Church
The spot near the plastics plant,
Bare earth scooped neatly into mounds,
Preparations for a new recycling plant.
Skittering along the debris of a
Previously undisturbed wild,
Before my memories formed.
Eating hot pink clovers that tasted like
Sweet carrots, as mama said they would,
My little brother hopping in the lazy puddles.
This disturbed earth not a quarter mile
From my new home on the outskirts of town,
Our lot barely having grown it's beard of grass.
The newest children in my small neighborhood
(if there are any) Will never know this place
Apart from where their fathers might work
The spot between the 183 and Liberty Church
Where once was trees and clovers
Where once kids scrambled over piles of dirt
Where once all seemed well in the world
Where earliest memories were made
DON’T MAKE COMMENTS ON CHILDREN’S WEIGHT
This is the fucking reason for my disorder
bury me with my money
Bury me with acorns,
Don't bury me in a box.
If you must, bury me in
A shroud of cotton.
Bury me in a simple shift
Don't bury me in a suit;
My rising will not be a formal affair.
Don't wear your best to
See me off.
Wear what you can get dirty.
You'll be spreading the mulch
On my gravesite.
Bury me with grave goods,
So if I am discovered by
Archeologists someday,
They will know I was loved.
Bury me with flowers,
But don't bury me with fresh roses.
Nay, plant on me perennials,
So you can still see me every year.
Finally, bury me with a stone marker,
But don't spend a fortune.
Carve for me the name I chose,
No matter what others may call me.
Bury me under sturdy granite,
So I can yet leave my mark
On something set for years.
While you may not see me,
These marks will be my gift to you.
Bury me with my money,
But the riches of the things I hold
Most dear.
the quietude of things, tathev simonyan
SAVOR
“Consider this: we fuck with the lights on. You trace the flat shape of my breasts when I lay down. We keep the windows open because the rain smells like the closest we’ve ever been to Heaven. We watch the ferns drip like they’re heavy with honey. I cut red peppers in the kitchen. You put on every song we’ve ever fallen in love to. I’m beginning to lose the difference between our skin. I’m cold when you’re shivering. I ache when you’re lonely. I can feel the warmth in your pink, fluttering heart, and I hold it in my hands.”
— Schuyler Peck, On A Long Weekend
Mostly rice with a bit of chicken
It was only a few weeks,
Shopping at the local
Asian foods store.
Getting used to having
No car to shop with,
Packing a week's worth
Of groceries into a single
Backpack.
We ate mostly rice and
Vegetables with a bit of
Diced chicken for a bit of
Protein, once a week.
Bone-hungry and sick,
Despair set in.
"I want my mom" I said.
I didn't want her often,
Or even at all since leaving.
But after a few weeks of
Rice with nothing,
Anything seemed better
Than waiting for the anemia
To set in.
P.S.
(I didn't call my mom. We relented and subscribed to Walmart's delivery service and now we're doing okay)
The ducks by Stonegate
A pair of mallards sits on a
Manicured stone by an
Artificial fountain
Ah, the massive continuity of ducks
Here there be lakes,
(Or ponds, or even fountains)
Here there be ducks.
My futile attempt to find nature
I start with parks,
Unassuming grassy expanses
Rimmed with palms, perhaps
With a pond or playground
I graduate to preserves
Larger ponds, sometimes with
Geese, always with ducks
I walk along its paved paths
Or rocky byways, but I
Run into the road
The sounds of cars inescapable
Beyond the quacks and honks
And rustling of untrimmed mesquites
I try a "hike", more of a
Stroll through the stones of a
Great, holey hill
I lose track of my impromptu
Guides, so I take the easy route
It leads to he canal, another
Reminder of man's hubris in the
Desert biome I now call home
I was born to a land of true wilds,
Of old growth forests protected by
Fences, yes, but standing proud, uncut
I was born to hills, and creeks, and
Bushes bursting with black berries,
Counting the stars on a clear night,
Camping in the back yard,
Craning our necks to watch deer
And woodpeckers working
To hear bats screech under the new moon
I sit on a plastic bench, molded like wood
I watch men fish at stocked ponds,
I hope the sounds of motorcycles
Doesn't scare their catch,
But these creatures are likely as
Trained to the sounds as the grackles
Are to rooting through trash
I pray that the little natures around me
Remain un-golfed, and undeveloped
That the canal can yet give rest to cormorants,
That the bougainvilleas can shelter the sparrows,
That what little respect my new home has
For its many gifts can yet be preserved,
For the sake of the hikers, the birds,
The saguaros, even the God-given rocks
I pray for all of these things with my one
Little soul, with all the nature within,
Though futile my tiny words may be
To the unrelenting force of mankind's
Unending greed and craving for more,
More, more
I write poetry on the bus because it's my only free time
Sleeping in and breakfast
Shower and coffee
Not necessarily in that order
Walking to the bus
Walking from the bus
Working
Working
Working
Sometimes sitting down,
Sometimes working
Walking to the bus
Walking from the bus
*
Cooking
Gazing into the abyss
Screaming into the void
YouTube
Sleeping
*Optional (but not so):
Migraine, Joint pain, Irritability, Talking
to the other people on my bus
our destinations differ, but
while we share this liminal space,
between here and there,
not really anywhere,
may we find a modicum of
peace in the reality that we
are moving, and that we
move together.
-
Also whoever smells like barbeque should know it is delightful and I hope their meal is nice.
February
First crickets of an Arizona
Spring breaks the hush of
A cold-snap winter.
Light rain makes for a soggy
Week, but is never enough for the
Reservoirs. The streets grow louder
As motorcyclists break out their
Bikes, emboldened by the rising
Warmth. Finally, the last citrus fruits
Gain their ripeness, falling lethargically
To stone gardens, preparing to
Adorn themselves with new blossoms.
Scaffolding by Seamus Heaney
Before you a love song never took shape
never blinked at me with blue-green eyes,
never stabbed me.
Before you a breakup song never
laid on my shoulder
and cried with me
Your love made it all make sense.
This is why teardrops were on guitars.
This was why la vie was en rose.
I only wish I had left love
safely buried
on pages and stanzas.
Parties at Lake Mohawk
Church luncheons abound at the
Pavilion next to the lakeside beach
Concrete floor, cold against the
Raw, sandy feet of playtime
Coming out of the water for the
Potluck buffet, cheesy potatoes,
Dessert salads abounding.
A prayer goes up for the community,
For the healing of souls, or
For donations for the new church.
Small parties too, celebrated.
Confirmation class completion,
Ready for Easter Vigil.
Pungent incense and sweet oils
Will follow close by, but for now
We feast on our collective meal,
Camrederie with the priest before
Our big day.
Prayer
I wish I could pray every day,
Over dinner or at bedtime
Or anytime during the day perhaps.
I would say I have nothing to
Pray about, but that would be a lie.
I have plenty to pray for, both for
Myself and for others.
All I would need to do is
Clasp my hands, bow my head,
Talk to God.
Then my hands become repelling
Magnets, my head, full of helium.
My prayers stay stuck in my throat,
Choking my soul.
On occasion, I vomit up these
Words caught up inside,
Spewing out of my eyes and mouth,
Screaming a silent scream as
The rain streams down my face.
It's either this, or the prayers
Frozen in place would chill my heart,
Turn me to stone, kill my spirit.
magnet poetry always does good in curing writers block.
I'm Not a Rambler
On Writing Poetry
and I still
don’t know where to start
writing poetry any more be-
-cause every moment feels knee
deep in the ongoing fire of the
world perpetuated by forces
beyond my control but not
my understanding. They have
names and wear gaudy ties
and smile for the camera
after lobbying to reduce
safety to up production
and pour toxic waste into
the ground / minds / air
so if I told you I was in
love with a jasmine on a
bonny hill as the sun rises
would that lift a child from
the ruin of a hospital? I am
running out of time
for hope and trying my best
to throw spare change over
the flames and protest to the
powers whose pockets are too
full to move the dial an inch
away from oblivion and I
don’t know where to start
but this will end one of two
ways. So, maybe I’ll write again
for the end I want see
for the day after
when I can show you a jasmine
on a bonny hill as the sun rises.
