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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 #383123 added November 1, 2005 at 3:18pm
Restrictions: None
For Keeps
“You still use that thing?”
What a question!
My favorite tool
those tongs in the kitchen
to pull the hot toast out of the toaster
that you glued with tiny hands
twenty-six years ago
in school:
a clothes pin in between
two tongue depressors
and the recall of your granting me your gift,
your boy’s eyes aglow with pride,
handing me the fruit of your ambition and labor
in pursuit of praise and appreciation
that led to one tiny family legend.
Little do you know that when those tongs
hold the morning toast
they also shake hands with me
in your place,
pulling me close to remind me
of other tangibles I keep inside a shoe box:
a lock of your baby hair, your first doodling
on a piece of lined paper,
a bitten piece of a crayon, red in color,
one tiny sock, one tiny mitten that lost its pair,
and your tyke shirt, Dr. Denton’s, size three-months,
which you outgrew within the first couple of weeks.
All these little things stir the memory
of your enormous ability to change my world
with your baby smell, your baby warmth,
your child’s laugh,
and your first “I love you”
that caused the time to stand still.
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© Copyright 2005 Joy (UN: joycag at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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