Soft heat of her breath
Warm fur in the winter cold
Puppy comforts me
About the Creator
Janis Masyk-Jackson
I published my first article when I was 10 years old and I've been writing ever since. I'm a mom to 4 grown kids and I love traveling, animals, the paranormal and I'm a huge Disney fan.
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More stories from Janis Masyk-Jackson and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Poetic Beginnings of the F-Word
Most people know what the F-word means and the different capacities it's used in. In raw terms, it can mean having sex. In anger, it's used as an insult. It can also be used as a form of surprise, "What the f**k?" or as a descriptive word, "It was f**king awesome!" But how did this word begin, and what does it have to do with poetry? Let's take a look back in time.
By Janis Masyk-Jackson3 months ago in Poets
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaa day ago in Poets
Public Announcement Challenge Winners
For the Public Announcement Challenge, writers were asked to work inside voices built for control. These were notices, warnings, and updates meant to inform rather than confess. The strongest entries committed to that form and didn't break from it. Corporate memos, formal government alerts, and internal policy language were held consistently, allowing emotion, fear, grief, or humor to surface indirectly through pressure rather than declaration. The following poems recognize the voice of authority, and let human feeling slip through despite all its rules and restraint.
By Vocal Curation Team3 days ago in Resources
Comments (5)
Janis, I loved your haiku, well Done!!
Puppy Love . ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ WOW ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
Loved your haiku, and the photo of your dog.
Awww, soooo adorable! I loved it!
'Soft heat of her breath' I love that line! This is super cute!