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 #579916 added April 17, 2008 at 12:45pm Restrictions: None
Ye Olde Yarn Shoppe (Dew Drop 17)
Ye Olde Yarn Shoppe (prose-poem)
Fixation, Merino, Worsted, Alpaca, hand-dyed Sierra. I could sing the poetry of yarns on Open-Mic Night at Bulls and Frogs. That might have been before Debbie Macomber's passionate books and you bought me a set of crochet hooks. Then they burned down Grace's Ye Olde Yarn Shoppe on Revelation Avenue, and you sent her red roses for comfort. Her consolation, you said. Her consolation, my demise; for I was never worldly wise. So I named all the savage weeds in my yard after the two of you, and yanked them out of the soil one by one: Poison ivy, Knotweed, Crabgrass, Sodom's Apples, Carrot Wood, Buckthorn, Fire Tree, Goosefoot, all tangled up together, held down by the crochet hooks in a thrash bag. Now, I buy all knitted things, ready-made, from Macy's.
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