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!
Rain in the City
Rain spread nail polish
over the city
and glittered on
the sidewalks,
urging the flat world
to perk up to life.

But in the hectic traffic,
the people stacked like dominoes
about to tumble on one another.

In frizzled kiosks,
tabloids turned
to paper boats
and went a-sailing
in the gutters,
under haphazard boots.

Because the traffic was hectic,
the people stacked like dominoes
about to tumble on one another.

Rain imposed authority
over the umbrellas
with the pitter patter feet of
poetry's thrust
for some change
in focus.

Still the traffic was hectic
and the people stacked like dominoes
about to tumble on one another.




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