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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
Just a journal
with everyday verse
mushrooming all over
Read at your own risk. The poems here are of personal nature, more about me and of what is around me than those in other books and folders. They are usually written in a very short time with practically  no poetic intent.
December 27, 2020 at 2:01pm December 27, 2020 at 2:01pm
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Morning Deluge
I awake to the tatting drums
of a deluge, crushing
a thousand forests
as my hands shake
remembering your warmth
and my blushing face
since of all the storms
of my life
this one is the fiercest.
---
At the Capitol
Heavy jowls, thunderous voices
pursed lips, all the yeas and nays
banging gavel and fists
to the imperious waves
of enormous heads
all that jazz!
Except,
just don't expect any miracles!
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Full Moon
That moping ancient lantern
riding high in the sky
its distance not a problem
for transmission
of moonbeams
while under it, sedately,
without looking back,
you tiptoed away
in your archaic garb
like new wine in old bottle
and I,
the baffled, unobtrusive woman
trailed after you
a few paces behind,
until you ordered firmly,
"Don't follow me, anymore!"
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September 5, 2019 at 9:17pm September 5, 2019 at 9:17pm
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“can’t stop the feeling”
for you, my magic genie,
you dance and dance
electric, wavy, and too close
your brilliance brimming
melting the stars
in my galaxy
spreading the sky
in flurried flames
while I try,
flying high, to keep up
with you, my magic genie,
“can’t stop the feeling”
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Prompt: Justin Timberlane's "can't stop the feeling" |
February 4, 2015 at 5:28pm February 4, 2015 at 5:28pm
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On the narrow path west,
cool wind, fast moving Cirrus
high above the flat land
facing the pool,
as I walk
round about
the stone circle
like the Druids
administering spells
for the dark halves of my days,
listening to stories
stones tell
of beings that wilted away
due to overcrowding
inside such a tiny place,
my weed-covered flower bed
surrounded by stones.
My head lowered in shame,
I plead guilty.
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October 26, 2014 at 11:49am October 26, 2014 at 11:49am
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Playing at
catching my eye,
cowering in the corners,
shy, maybe nervous.
Could this be his trap
for table scraps?
A soft mew,
acting the diplomat,
with plans to stay
a gray stray cat. |
October 26, 2014 at 11:38am October 26, 2014 at 11:38am
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Surfing my dreams
over artistic waves in white berets,
I dip, slide, splash.
With symbols trivial
listening to no rule
yet, demanding respect,
in the dark of the night
such discreet puzzles
my dreams... |
August 16, 2013 at 7:05pm August 16, 2013 at 7:05pm
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ladle stirring soup
hypnotic hum from the fridge
musical kitchen |
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When you look away...
not even a savage sky
to brave as refuge
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.I.
“Shut up, Bobby Lee,” The Misfit said. “It’s no real pleasure in life.”
Ending of A Good Man Is Hard To Find by Flannery O’Connor
Hear the big idea bubble,
the lightning flash inside your head?
How can you
with closed eyes, limp hands,
and snores like steam engines?
When you wake, the pain
will soak in, and you’ll grieve
your broken heart, your nightmare’s hints.
Being the misfit that you are,
you’ll wonder if it’ll be worth it,
this struggle to remember
what dreams tried to tell.
.II.
The wake itself remains, etched out across the water’s surface; then it fades as well, although no one is there to see it go.
Ending of The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
You pushed too hard, I’d say
feeling the weight, as the current took you.
Between liquor and youth,
you threw it away
in a flicker, instead of
singing in the sun,
just to avoid searching
how to awaken and listen
to your heart.
.III.
“Lastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how she would keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her childhood; and how she would gather about her other little children, and make their eyes bright and eager with many a strange tale, perhaps even with the dream of Wonderland of long ago; and how she would feel with all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering her own child-life, and the happy summer days.”
Ending of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll
When you and I shared midnight giggles
in our kiddie pajamas, who’d know
we’d soon leave our magic funhouse
in the wonderland of lands and omit
looking through time’s telescope
into future…
Later on, we perched on verandas
with babes on our laps to forget
the other side of the moon so dark,
and today, we still smile together
at grandkids at play.
Awesome, isn’t it
sipping Earl Grey, spurting
the liquid out in a sudden burst of laughter?
.IV.
“Yes,” I said. “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”
Ending of The Sun Also Rises by Hemingway
Isn’t it pretty to think so
like the boy who believed he could fly
then fell off a tree, breaking his arm?
I wonder what he thought,
at the instant
when rotting leaves
and damp earth stuck
to his face and extremities.
Fearing mutilation for life,
how he cried in pain
two hours later, amidst
the cracking sound—crystal-like--
and the stench of medicine
when the bone was set.
You’d think he’d lose his swagger
afterwards, but other illusions
strayed in the back of his mind
past wisdom or light.
Another noise rang in his ears,
sending a powerful shudder
through my spine, and
another omen surfaced
from his tectonic plates
to quake my calm existence.
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Where are you going,
tiny winged seed?
You transplant yourself,
hoping for utopia
when, at best,
you might land on
pebbles and dirt,
then stay
for the love of sun.
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October 15, 2009 at 11:31am October 15, 2009 at 11:31am
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First try, scared.
Mistakes, yes,
failure, no.
Same curve repeats
beginning, end,
the grind.
This will be like
holding the moon
in my hands and
not knowing
what to do with it.
I remind me of latitude.
direction, anti-gravity,
unrestraint, hunger,
and I lean
on other shoulders.
Funny, how some fears
take years
to accept... |
October 15, 2009 at 11:28am October 15, 2009 at 11:28am
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Toolbox
Pliers,
wrench,
screwdriver,
hammer,
nails,
chisel,
glue,
nuts and bolts...
Still, all those
cannot fix
lives. |
October 15, 2009 at 11:23am October 15, 2009 at 11:23am
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Inability
A part of me wants
what I cannot have,
like the emptying
of my heart,
cleaning of all spills
known or unknown,
and the uttering of words
I should have said.
On the other hand,
I know for sure that
all misfortunes
cannot be contained. |
October 15, 2009 at 11:21am October 15, 2009 at 11:21am
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Sci -Fi
I wrote Sci-Fi
as if thousands of suns
burst apart and a
new spectrum,
a harsh light,
confused my universe,
or as if the traffic
of mind found
an alternate route
for the intergalactic travel,
but a raw universe
is nothing to take
for granted
since this neophyte
has discovered
fracture rips
in her new truth. |
October 15, 2009 at 11:20am October 15, 2009 at 11:20am
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Fixing Me
The green gel on my skin
to secure the Holter
itches as if millions of
ratchet wrenches are
boring into my skin.
The doctor isn't on to the fact
that there's too much to fix
besides the atrial fibrillation,
like the holes in my head
or my cumbersome life. |
October 15, 2009 at 11:18am October 15, 2009 at 11:18am
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The Dressmaker's Bust
The dressmaker's mannikin
is a bust without a head,
limbs, and feet;
more matter than mind.
Matter or mind, to strike up
a conversation, nothing
is too small for me.
What if the mannikin spoke?
I bet it would chide me.
" Just a chest with a heart
will do; can you say
the same thing
for yourself?" |
October 15, 2009 at 11:17am October 15, 2009 at 11:17am
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Same Spot
When a child,
my shoes always
got holes under them
at the same spots.
It was the way I stepped,
the doctor said.
so they restrained my feet
in kiddie boots
with laces all the way
to my ankles, but
that didn't help
even if I learned how
to tie things up.
Now in my sixth decade,
I step the old faulty way,
putting holes in everything
except the shoes,
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October 15, 2009 at 11:14am October 15, 2009 at 11:14am
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She Let Her Garden Go
She let her garden go
to the weeds, rising
over her head,
to the moss and the mildew,
invading the stone walls,
as she sat among the reeds
because her world fell
for he just couldn't listen
to what she was saying.
Missed
He gave her the moon
then took it back
and hid it behind the clouds.
Poor fellow!
In the dark of the night,
he missed her curtsy
as she left for good. |
October 13, 2009 at 6:55pm October 13, 2009 at 6:55pm
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Kudzu
Kudzu, here you remain suspended
and wait, hanging
in all your hideous independence.
No water, no roots,
you get everything you need
from the air.
Unfortunately, for me,
poems do not come from the air.
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October 13, 2009 at 6:49pm October 13, 2009 at 6:49pm
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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. |
October 13, 2009 at 6:47pm October 13, 2009 at 6:47pm
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On the Starbucks Line
"Double shot espresso and
two chocolate grahams, please!"
Complete with adrenaline,
I listen to the orders
as I wait for the seven
in front of me, and not care
about waiting, a fool
so pitiful, but
Banana Frapuccino and
my net-book are chums;
plus, the young man in front
of me-who said, "The name's
Felix"- is trying to pick up
the girl with crimson curls
in front of him. Then the woman
with long sleeves sitting at
the table to the left
signals to the grey-haired
man in summer shorts and flip flops
behind me, mouthing "Mocha Latte!"
Stacked in line, I mark
my spot and claim territory;
so afterwards, I may
compete for an empty circular table,
flinging my knapsack on top of it.
My Table Technique tangoes with
the pace of the stampede, since
a stranglehold on a table can be
as tricky as the brew, and so I
shall act when my order is filled.
For now, toward the end of my life,
with a steaming cup in my hand,
I can promise nothing to no one.
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