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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.
 
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Mushrooms, Splinters, and Thorns #671620 added October 13, 2009 at 6:49pm
Restrictions: None
Venus
Venus
Night sky…Venus on the East
like desire, standing put
and coming back again
night after night, altering her position
just a bit, as if repelling risk.
Its light, the brightest. Yet,
in the neighboring houses,
one foolish person coils in smoke;
another hides in his Scotch,
not understanding the eyes
of the night sky, watching us,
Venus threading her way
with the luster of hope.
On Holidays
Some of us do weep
on holidays,
some as they search
some as they wait
for those who’ll never come.
For the lonely and the lost
celebration is pain
with a savage taste.
Yet, memories strike
like lightning, melting
iron fences, and
we hold hands, smiling
through tears.
Reflection
The colors you spot
in front of you
reflect your colors,
and the farther you can see,
the wiser you are.
The sum of your years
may lead you to the end
but life will expand
as large as
you have loved.
Behind You
Where the sidewalks curve
at each corner,
tenements like giants,
their windows blinded
by dark curtains,
will fill you with fear
drop by drop.
You’ll walk fast
without turning to look back
toward the place
where pitch black begins
as if you’ll catch me there.
The sound of your footsteps
will amplify in the night
adding mystery
to your mystery
and you’ll search for me
without grasping that
I’ll always walk behind you.
Learning
To see the arc of the backyard,
I climb a tree, feeling like Tarzan.
The ants are tigers;
a caterpillar turns into a caiman.
And I swing, holding on to a branch
four feet above the ground,
with a savage cry
to tumble in a heap,
to end up bawling,
with scraped knees.
Sixty years later,
not much has changed;
I still fall from high and low,
except my wild self knows
how to rise again. |
© 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. |
