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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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Green Peas at Stake #265236 added November 8, 2003 at 12:07am
Restrictions: None
The Oak in My Backyard
Somewhere to the south of the Equator,
on the western slopes of the Andes,
a rare oak tree rustles, chanting its special plea,
when the wind breathes through it,
with the sacred sounds of a reed,
played in a temple, in worship.
Hearing the Southern Wind, the oak in my backyard
--shape-wise a pyramid--
in a ritual few have witnessed,
turning its branches upward
like hands praying,
echoes the chant, which,
through intricate continents,
promises golden wings out of gloom,
blurring the edges between people and creation
and dreams they yet don’t know of.
When that mesmerizing chant touches my ears,
trusting the experience of a moment’s rapture,
inside my silence, I reflect
on any sin I can own up to,
inverted in self-defense,
using any crutch I can pick up from my collection,
and the tree sends down its offerings of hope
to establish roots under my feet,
without asking for repentance,
without any fancy words,
without disbelief,
but through acceptance,
grounded in infinite love.
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© Copyright 2003 Joy (UN: joycag at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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