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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
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"The astonished muse finds thousands at her side." *Laugh**Laugh*
R. W. Emerson

I made this poetry journal because I like to play with words and lines and I wanted to put somewhere some of my practice work (or first draft) in verse, written--within a very short time, probably daily on the spur of the moment, with the idea to work on the entries later--with or without the help of the astonished (should I say shocked?) muse. *Laugh**Laugh*


Some of the haiku I have mixed with senryu, not only because I am not a purist, but also because I like to do what I like to do given what I feel at the moment.



January 4, 2009 at 4:55pm
January 4, 2009 at 4:55pm
#627796
The recliners are senior style
reconciling comfort and survival,
with covers getting weather-worn
under the sun, while they wait by
the side of the curb.
Do they discuss atherosclerosis,
kidney stones, flabby arms, arthritis,
and prostate enlargement, and tease
the credenzas and the mahogany table
with the unsteady leg?
Probably, they all exchange woes
with each other, comparing
pains and people, who used them up
and threw them out; however,
they seem resigned as they prepare
for the Goodwill truck to pick them up
for lesser homes, like those people
who grow old to perfection,
then melt away in forlorn places.



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