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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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Mushrooms, Splinters, and Thorns #727750 added July 2, 2011 at 11:07pm
Restrictions: None
Endings
.I.
“Shut up, Bobby Lee,” The Misfit said. “It’s no real pleasure in life.”
Ending of A Good Man Is Hard To Find by Flannery O’Connor
Hear the big idea bubble,
the lightning flash inside your head?
How can you
with closed eyes, limp hands,
and snores like steam engines?
When you wake, the pain
will soak in, and you’ll grieve
your broken heart, your nightmare’s hints.
Being the misfit that you are,
you’ll wonder if it’ll be worth it,
this struggle to remember
what dreams tried to tell.
.II.
The wake itself remains, etched out across the water’s surface; then it fades as well, although no one is there to see it go.
Ending of The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
You pushed too hard, I’d say
feeling the weight, as the current took you.
Between liquor and youth,
you threw it away
in a flicker, instead of
singing in the sun,
just to avoid searching
how to awaken and listen
to your heart.
.III.
“Lastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how she would keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her childhood; and how she would gather about her other little children, and make their eyes bright and eager with many a strange tale, perhaps even with the dream of Wonderland of long ago; and how she would feel with all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering her own child-life, and the happy summer days.”
Ending of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll
When you and I shared midnight giggles
in our kiddie pajamas, who’d know
we’d soon leave our magic funhouse
in the wonderland of lands and omit
looking through time’s telescope
into future…
Later on, we perched on verandas
with babes on our laps to forget
the other side of the moon so dark,
and today, we still smile together
at grandkids at play.
Awesome, isn’t it
sipping Earl Grey, spurting
the liquid out in a sudden burst of laughter?
.IV.
“Yes,” I said. “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”
Ending of The Sun Also Rises by Hemingway
Isn’t it pretty to think so
like the boy who believed he could fly
then fell off a tree, breaking his arm?
I wonder what he thought,
at the instant
when rotting leaves
and damp earth stuck
to his face and extremities.
Fearing mutilation for life,
how he cried in pain
two hours later, amidst
the cracking sound—crystal-like--
and the stench of medicine
when the bone was set.
You’d think he’d lose his swagger
afterwards, but other illusions
strayed in the back of his mind
past wisdom or light.
Another noise rang in his ears,
sending a powerful shudder
through my spine, and
another omen surfaced
from his tectonic plates
to quake my calm existence.
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