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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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When Mama Wrote Her words, plastic shopping bags in flight,
testing the wind,
in shrieks of joy,
Mama, on a serious roller-coaster ride,
thrilled just to experience the drop,
but unwilling to tell too much.
Reality, symmetrical and compact,
scares away her imagination;
yet, undertones of desire,
like paperweights,
hold her in place,
though the lines reel while she writes.
A sudden plunge down the steep hill,
fearing,
through jungles of living,
she loathes to pass her verse around,
but her fingers grip her head in a bony vise,
and her pencil, a bar, secures her in her seat.
When she passes by,
I wave back to applaud,
just to be included in her delight;
her chant touches my ears
with caresses.
I cling to her papers now
to treasure the recall
of that fleeting instant,
coaxing a warmth between us,
and I feel her ride going on
inside the hearts that hold her joy.
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© Copyright 2003 Joy (joycag at Writing.Com).
All rights reserved.
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