Potent Ponds

Potent Ponds

Steeping in cool waters

The saffron sun on the

Bowl of the pond.

Taking my vitamins every

Morning, the C in my veins

Mingling with the salt in my eyes.

I ride two buses to my chapel

Of peace, a set of flowing

Waters, unblessed but holy to me.

Pacing the dusty paths of

The preserve, I ponder the

Wild waterbirds, wandering.

The ducks, unburdened by

Prejudice, finding their ways

Along the tiny beaches.

The spice of life, I infuse my days

With the fine herbs of musical

Birdsong and chords of clouds.

Finalizing my day's work,

I board the buses home, busy days

Ahead, but for now, hallowed, heady harmony.

More Posts from J-i-poetry and Others

4 months ago

Writing References: Colours

Black ⚜ Blue ⚜ Brown ⚜ Green ⚜ Grey ⚜ Orange

Pink ⚜ Purple ⚜ Red ⚜ Variegation ⚜ White ⚜ Yellow

Word Alternatives ⚜ Archaic Words ⚜ Dark

Describing Colours ⚜ Word List ⚜ Gold

Symbolisms: Colour Vitamins ⚜ "Magical" Uses

More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs


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3 months ago
text id: The table does not wince at grief,
nor does the chair care to recall
who sat, who wept, whose warmth it stole—
its wooden arms embrace them all.


The mirror swallows every face,
and never even asks for names.
It watches bodies turn to dust—
cares not for those whose eyes it lost.


The clock will offer its two hands
to any soul who wills to dance,
and it shall turn, and turn again—
unphased by love, untouched by pain.


The books will whisper blackened words
through days of peace, through years of war,
to you, your kin, and to your foe—
no pledge they made, no oath they owe.


The world is built on quiet things,
on stone, on glass, on wood, on steel.
They do not haste, they do not wait—
they simply are, and always will—
stood upon hands of time—be still.

the quietude of things, tathev simonyan

3 months ago

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.


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Aspiring poet and cat parent.

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