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 #272496 added January 11, 2004 at 7:21am Restrictions: None
Primroses
(to an old friend)
Primroses exploring
the vast ocean of friendship
and the simple life;
drinking a bucket of water,
improvising abundance,
crowded together,
inside hanging pots,
on the balcony, Apartment 2A,
at Place du Tertre, Montmartre.
A visual keepsake.
hooking itself
on the altar of recollection.
The flesh of bare walls
throbbing with artsy aroma.
Questioning the presence of shadows,
in cheerful quavering lines,
young-girl-laughter,
our careless wisdom.
While you sleep,
I spill off to the river,
scavenging for turpentine dreams
through slumbering shapes
along the bank.
No way we'll be leaving,
for we'll stay inside memories,
like petals drifting unto the same pile;
now hovering over letters we send,
we never have been closer.
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"Truth is beautiful, without doubt; but so are lies."- Ralph Waldo Emerson
Joy
image by SMS |
© Copyright 2004 Joy (UN: joycag at Writing.Com). All rights reserved. Joy has granted InkSpot.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
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