Amber

in its hue

Amber

stays mellow

in its hue

even as its sheen glistens

brightly.


Photo by Maksim Goncharenok from Pexels

That Belongs to the Children

when the moon comes crashing

I’m usually awake before the moon falls down,

crashing into the horizon

and splintering into billions of different pieces.

I don’t participate in the collection of its fragments–

that usually belongs to the children,

laughing jovially as they sprint toward the dispersion of moon rock,

lifting the bottom of their shirts to form little baskets

so that they might carry those pieces close to their bellies

as they race to the place where it comes back together.

I don’t participate in the reassembly–

that also belongs to the children.

They stack the pieces and squish them together

and sometimes use just a little bit of glue

until the moon is whole and healthy and round once more.

And I don’t participate in setting the moon aloft in evening time–

that too belongs to the children.

They let it float up like a helium balloon that gets lost

except that they are rooting for this rising,

watching it with wonder-filled eyes,

though they see the same moon night after night,

just in different phases.


Photo by Brian Lazo from Pexels

Image to Imagination: Pen Pal Letter #4

seeing things for what they are

To Whom It May Concern:

A picture is worth a thousand words, and I usually record a few hundred of them.

I am never more inspired to write than when I’m looking at things. And by that, I mean really seeing things for what they are. Seeing the longing on the faces of those strangers whose paths I cross on the sidewalk. Seeing the rain speckling my window and the way the blinds divide up that view. Seeing the stardust cascading to the ground as a meteor shoots overhead.

Okay, not all of those sights are true.

I would not claim to be a visual person. Sounds are far more likely to catch my attention than sights, but they don’t inspire me to write the way that images do. So much so that two pen pal letters in a row are all about pictures.

I was scrolling through Pexels once again this morning, and poetic snippets kept coming to me one after another. These snippets have yet to be fleshed out into full poems and there is no guarantee that the final poems that build themselves around those words, phrases, and lines will have anything to do with the pictures that originally inspired them, but they have their roots in those images nonetheless.

I went to an art museum yesterday. I didn’t go there for the art, I went for an event that they were having, but I stayed to look at some of the art anyway. Just three rooms total. I definitely would have liked to see more, but I was so tired or under-caffeinated or both and I really could not see myself being able to give the art the attention that it deserved.

So I left. Got some food. Came home. Spent a tired evening on the couch. And I finally went to bed.

Today, I woke up and found myself inspired by images, but none of that inspiration can fully make up for what I missed out on yesterday. What I miss out on every day when I am too tired or inattentive to really see the world around me.

What I write will never be complete, but then again, neither will any photograph. I can’t see the eyes light up and soften. A video isn’t really complete either. I can’t touch or taste or smell. Nor is an in-person view. I can never know the whole story.

But that doesn’t mean that these things are not worth capturing and worth saving.

I am but a saver of sights. And words are my medium.

Wishing you all the best.

Sincerely,

-Joy


photo by me

Mosaic

together

We fit together,

not like puzzle pieces,

not compensating for one another’s juts and grooves;

besides, we are each whole in our own rights.

Rather, we’re tiles;

we lie neatly beside each other just like we’re supposed to

with a little grout to fill any gaps,

grout that has been gingerly wiped from our faces with a careful hand,

so that together we can form a vibrant mosaic.


Photo by rotekirsche 20 from Pexels

Protection

the overgrown lapdog

There’s a jingling outside the window.

The overgrown lapdog rushes over, stares outside, and offers a deep, prolonged growl.

A cat on the couch nearby takes heed of the dog’s warning and moves somewhere else in the apartment to stay safe far away from the mysterious jingling.

I peer through the glass and see nothing, but I too heard that strange sound that had no business being made directly outside our second story window.

And it was probably just a trick of the wind or a dog’s collar on ground level that sounded much closer than it actually was,

but I still feel safer as the dog keeps guard near that window, steady and alert.


Photo by stiv xyz from Pexels