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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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On Crabapple Beach Before Crabapple Beach rolls over
in its sleep to dream
of summer people
who’ll desert it again,
I scoop up the sand inside the arches
of my feet and wander
under the rising moon,
unafraid of the beach bums,
the cool water,
or anything else except
drowning
in the ocean between
me and the world.
Accordingly, I peek
for clues of life inside
well-lighted beach-house windows:
soup steaming on a stove,
white flowers in a coffee mug,
two lovers in an embrace,
slender volumes of verse
on a windowsill,
promising an eternity of simple joys
to souls with private pains.
And I recall a delicate moment
when, on a late autumn night,
on Crabapple Beach,
a little girl penned her first line of poetry,
her first newscast to the world,
with a sigh, as if saying, “I do,”
to a lifelong marriage
of clumsily scribbled words from her spirit,
and she felt the earth move
under her feet,
before overnight-gusts barreled through,
inserting icicles inside the sand.
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© Copyright 2003 Joy (joycag at Writing.Com).
All rights reserved.
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