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!
To My Door .I.
How I could live without you!
For my fingers clasp your knob with a caress
to tug you taut like a lifesaver
and when I feel you behind me
you welcome me.
You, an alchemist brewing
remedial potions for dark times
keeping me private and secure
and standing guard
while I change clothes and sorrows
as I suffer my concussions from life.

How do you circumvent self-imposed limitations?
For you are neither ornate nor grand;
yet, polishing your uppercut,
you cover up for me when I smuggle
the poetry of my nakedness
inside small spiral notebooks,
but unlike hypocritical lovers,
you maintain your stance
without promises
or slippery adulation.

How do you find such generosity?
For, when I hold you open,
you offer traces of a dream,
in spite of my deficient life,
to encourage me to step
out of turbulent thoughts
and my keyboard’s jabber,
to face what it takes
to be me.



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