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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!
Green Peas at Stake
#578048 added April 7, 2008 at 10:33am
Restrictions: None
What is not said… ( Dew Drop 7 -April 7)
What is not said…

Auntie Em, at eighty-two, with damp
white hair and pale face, talks of
her life in ceaseless thirst: the bliss
of her childhood when she rode
in the rumble seat of Model A Ford;
the hands of a pianist, her first
love; how she fell into marriage like
a meek doppelganger with icy eyes;
how she gathered sea shells and
kelp from the sea foam on sand
on her wedding day; the child that
never was; her immigrant neighbor’s
swearing like an anarchist in rage;
her husband’s ashes in the urn
one day she’ll throw in the sea
as she promised him, just not yet.

Auntie Em talks of the town council,
Orchard Drive’s traffic, old fashions,
pinwheels, her barmaid sister-in-law,
her cane, bean soup and prophecies,
crabapple trees, caraway seeds,
pineapple upside-down cakes, tarts,
éclairs, weather vanes, night sweats,
rheumatoid arthritis, backaches, but
she never talks of the cancer,
gnawing her within, gruesome, aslant,
and in between her voice
and my nodding, what is not said
encrypts itself into how similar we are,
in holding back our shivering
inside word clouds, as if
paying homage to life.



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