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 #671616 added October 13, 2009 at 6:41pm Restrictions: None
Driver
Driver
I am the driver
fighting off sleep
on a lonely highway.
I look in the rearview mirror
and I notice
my mussed up hair
that only obeyed the wind
and my bloodshed eyes
like binoculars
peering into
the long distances
I have left behind.
It is no hard science
to see I am a woman,
a fact my mother
omitted to tell,
but still, I sit up straight
and drive on.
He Who Doesn't Hear
He doesn't hear me.
He just doesn't hear
anybody, but
he listens
with his sense of touch,
feeling the stones
and the thorns
on my path.
He tastes my ramblings
and tells me if
they are sweet or sour.
He observes the colors
inside me,
inside my liver, my heart,
with the kind of dedication
only I could imagine. |
© Copyright 2009 Joy (UN: joycag at Writing.Com). All rights reserved. Joy has granted InkSpot.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
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