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  May 9 Joy
Sara Teasdale
You bound strong sandals on my feet,
You gave me bread and wine,
And sent me under sun and stars,
For all the world was mine.

Oh, take the sandals off my feet,
You know not what you do;
For all my world is in your arms,
My sun and stars are you.
Joy Mar 30
Nothing more,
nothing less
than the seed growing
in the ceramic ***,
than the serendipity of
stumbling upon people made of
sunrays and stardust,
than the potential for growing,
than the potential of decay.
I'm nothing more
nor nothing less
than potential for love and hate,
for creation and destruction.
Insignificant and small.
Important and huge.
I am everything
and nothing of major importance.
I am somehow miraculously
in the most mundane sense
me.
Happy birthday indeed.
Joy Nov 2020
You're twenty years early
and ten years late.

It is too early to worry about it
and it's too late to regret it.
It's too early to act on it
and too late to do anything about its past.
It's too early to rush into it
and too late to start on time.
It's both too early and too late.
And that's precisely why
we have time.
  Oct 2020 Joy
Luke
I went out to find
Some value in me,
So I sold what I had
For little a fee.

My eyes for a penny
I sold to some fools,
They're blind and useless,
Mistook for jewels.

My lips for a nickel
To the sweetest sin,
So they'll know the love
That has never been.

My ears for a dime
I sold to a lover.
To hear sweet nothings,
And silence uncover.

My hands for a quarter
I sold to a ghost,
So that she might feel
What I've wanted the most.

Finally my bones for a dollar
I sold to the earth,
But as for my soul-
There was found no worth.
Joy Oct 2020
I wish there was a substance
to the stories I tell.
But there's not much to be contained
within the walls of my cardigan,
ceramic rings
circling the joints and bones
of a hand too fragile
to hold solid concepts.
There is but an empty balloon
nestled in a stomach
craving appetites and fullness.
Words hollowed out
to hold scribbled strings
of disjointed thoughts
pulling and shape and meaning.
A ghost that's stuck
between wet cold rocks.
  Aug 2020 Joy
Sylvia Plath
"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"
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