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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 #327489 added October 13, 2009 at 6:03pm
Restrictions: None
I could… but (and others)
I could… but
I could write this
in bloody italics
to revile the silver light
of a rambunctious moon
for hiding the dark repute
of the world.
I could repeat the affinity
of petty scenes
and damaged dreams
in a realm rendered
by decaying scripts.
I could declare myself fulfilled
through my conceits,
other shortcomings,
and the bodies I felled
into a rhetorical abyss.
I could… but I won’t,
since I’m the one who broke
the bricks of Babel
and laid my fancy
-as if rose petals-
at the feet of
a few ailing words.
Cryptic Blue
Whoops! A cranky gal,
possibly a klutz,
with a knack for
listing knotty problems
of the cryptic blue
computer screen…
she tried to kowtow
to the powers that be
and kindle a flame
under service aristocracy
that a company might have;
yet, to no avail.
I wonder, who could that be,
this woman so disturbed
as to bother the ranks
of outsourced geeks,
for a motherboard
gone kaput?
Now, in her style, she casts a spell,
thinking, “No more laptop for me,
rhyming with hell,
nor from any other patentee,”
and she loops her neck in surrender,
because
“the shipwrecked man shrinks
even from calm waters.”
Meltdown
(An amnesiac who just now woke up this morning with “total recall”)
Morning lights wipe my eyes
to make my sight beam like silver
polished anew by the zealous hand.
of a holy patron.
Truth, definitely truth,
is coming to me
and soaring to the summit of certainty,
while a gallimaufry of recollections
-as if contestants in a race
to trammel putrescent myths-
rush through the length of a life,
Call it a reconnaissance trip,
since the forefinger traces,
egregious and haughty.
inside a tangled roadmap
a flagrant route scrolling down
to a self-portrait shockingly grandiose,
obsessed, selfish, bitter;
one who is cast so low.
Alas, I urge the mind to forget
and close its lid on memories,
for I don’t want to know,
now, I don’t want to know.
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© Copyright 2009 Joy (UN: joycag at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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