|
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.
 
|
Building Castles That chilling touch...
A gust has blown inland from the sea,
running across my limbs.
Next, I hear echoes from behind;
trees are complaining.
Then, slate-colored ocean with briny scent
laps the rocks,
increasingly daring, dull gray water breaks and rolls.
Sandpipers, akin to caravans of gypsies,
take hasty steps,
intent on combing the wet smooth sand.
Stratus clouds slither overhead
like charcoal-colored cats
about to leap on their prey,
for villains are made to thicken the plot.
The rumor is,
a storm’s in the making.
As Mama sits nearby daydreaming
the impossible, Papa’s return,
I work to the rhythm of the surf,
pouring myself like cement
over a castle with turrets slanted.
Abruptly, dull thudding sounds pelt my ears,
raindrops fall,
a torched-linen sky tears apart.
Afterwards, waves rush in foaming, boiling;
towers, ramparts, the moat, and the bridge,
all in one heap,
a sad unity accomplished.
I squish the wet sand through my fingers,
and when Mama gathers me up,
I know I’ll build again.
Years later, to the same music inside me,
I plunge ahead and construct
many fine castles
of greater promise and beauty
for people I love,
each one a home,
well-kept,
with family intact.
And in silence,
on the same fabled beach with sea birds whizzing by,
I still work against many a storm razing,
trying to rebuild the same old castle,
my childhood home,
with turrets slanted,
fixing it with forgiveness
inside myself.
|
© Copyright 2003 Joy (joycag at Writing.Com).
All rights reserved.
InkSpot.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
|
