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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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Daily Cascade #1097934 added September 23, 2025 at 1:14pm
Restrictions: None
The Heart is like an Ocean
Prompt: Heart and the Ocean
“Your heart is like the ocean, mysterious and dark.”
Bob Dylan
In what ways is your heart like the ocean? Are you aware of every single thing that your heart holds inside it?
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Ocean...calm on the surface, at least sometimes, but it is layered. Underneath it, is hidden life, trenches, currents, and our thrash and waste. Just like we are...just like I am.
So much of the heart remains hidden because it must. Why, I don't know, but I understand that I am not meant to peer into its every shadowed trench and dark depths; otherwise, I'd lose my wits, what little of them has been left after my long life.
Just like the ocean, my heart also has its tides. And tides--mine or the ocean's-- shift in silence, some due to the currents tugging at me. Those currents carry memories, hurts, and longings from way back when, and those, I find out to be strange at first, since I never realize I still own them.
My old griefs are the shipwrecks resting far beneath the surface, and the newer ones, I feel only if I look below very carefully.
Then, there is a fun surprise, too. My forgotten joys drift like schools of bright fish, darting to the view when an unexpected light (a sudden recall) touches them. Desires, fears, pride as the result of old achievements, my beloved family and friends' attentions, all live underneath, unseen, only to rise when stirred by a scent, a word, a poem, or the recall of a loved one's memory.
The heart, mine or yours or anyone's, is too large, too vast, too deep, and also, too layered for understanding it in its totality. So we only sail upon it, listening to its hush and warnings, and hearing the roar of its tides. Its darkness is not empty but possibly beautiful in a mysterious sort of way. Its unknown depths are in abundance, to remind us that we are so much more than we realize.
We are not aware of everything our hearts hold because so much of what shapes us hides beneath the conscious thought. Our hearts, within us, therefore, are the oceans of mystery, alive, deep, and infinite.
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