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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. Kiya's gift. I love it!
Mushrooms, Splinters, and Thorns
#325814 added October 13, 2009 at 6:21pm
Restrictions: None
Yoda - Indecision

Yoda

Exposed jewels of light,
eyes, in darkness shining,
sparkling in command,
ordering with superiority
to put all problems on hold,
beating out a rhythm of purrs,
content, with perfect timing.

This intractable complexity,
garish, pompous,
spun from feline feats
of long proud history;
whittling at my wits,
an unsaddled spirit
inside an opulent fur.

His pattern, a fierce stealth for strangers,
those alien parasites, house guests,
whose names he doesn’t care to know,
whose faces he doesn’t need to see.
At the other hemisphere of the living room,
leaping on a stiff-backed chair,
his altar of consolation.

One miraculous jump,
a Siamese taking in the landscape,
to do largely as he pleases,
as if a sun stealing in under my skin,
to make a gift of his warmth,
then to shrug and turn his head impulsively away
out of affection.


Indecision

A futile word
or a silence wise,
she’ll hate herself
it’ll be her demise.

The confusion’s mine,
reversing the blow
to sickness in me -the ire-
since her two-timing man
will set her on fire.

A futile word
or a silence wise,
she’ll hate herself
it’ll be her demise.

but this torment is hilarious,
a tattletale or not
I’m a sweating rag
for either way
I’ll be the hag.

A futile word
or a silence wise,
she’ll hate herself
it’ll be her demise.


© Copyright 2009 Joy (UN: joycag at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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