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 #671618 added October 13, 2009 at 6:45pm Restrictions: None
Seaweed
Haiku
a moment before
there could be another life
now your chance is gone
Seaweed
Seaweed on the rock's crust
swishing around
within the upside down reflections
of grey hair
and eyes like olives.
One woman wondering how to
shape-shift into sea-grapes
and reflecting upon herself,
a reflection
all mine.
Buses
I rode the buses once
and watched the traffic outside
stop and start,
from their windows.
When rain conquered the city
and the land swam,
fat black wheels doled out mud
from the puddles
to the pedestrians,
to bestow upon them
the dirt of the streets.
When snows came,
buses slid backwards
and riders twitched
like caged cheetahs;
yet, akin to mystics,
they sat with frozen gazes
until the next stop, and
after they got off,
the fragments of their lives
washed out on me,
glinting like broken glass.
Now, when I visit the city,
the buses pass me by
their headlights like searchlights,
but they do not spot me
on the sidewalk
with mud on my coat. |
© 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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