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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
#583674 added May 6, 2008 at 7:21pm
Restrictions: None
Angels Who Left
          "The streets of heaven are far too crowded with angels"

Angels left, clicking
their bones,
their smiles dancing
in the memory,
angels ignored far too long
like the disease with no mercy,
like an oily turpentine spill,
instead of the cheer they
attempted to paint.
Angels tall and thin,
angels with yellowed skin
angels of patience,
looking for the moon, but
finding heaven in
music's colors,
angels sculpting
a strange art of sparks
that coalesce into
stars with long
hyacinth wings.
Angels gave me
magic ears, so I
can still hear them
singing.



Prompt 48 from "Poets' Practice PadOpen in new Window.

© Copyright 2008 Joy (UN: joycag at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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