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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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Off the Cuff / My Other Journal #593755 added June 29, 2008 at 10:10pm
Restrictions: None
Spying on a gator
I walk over to the canal to look at the water once more. Two days ago, I had glimpsed a five-foot alligator sunning on the bank when we passed over the bridge in the car. I didn’t call anyone for fear the alligator could be killed in its own territory. Then my alliance to my own species proved stronger and kept producing visions of alligator versus child conflicts to prod my conscience.
If I see the alligator again, I’ll call. I swear to myself that I’ll call. That is why I keep touching the cell phone in my pocket to make sure my cell phone doesn’t run away, even if I am bothered by its cracking voice when it works—it is from Verizon.
Before I reach the bridge that goes over the canal, I see the tall trees. They have always been there, but today, I am looking at them as if for the first time. Ivies and air ferns have encircled their trunks with longing, a longing that suffocates. Yet the trees must have allowed this. Stupid trees...now they look like hippies in love with rags and long hair hanging off of them. Most any tall tree looks like this in South Florida where the hanging anything has its way with the tree.
Small palm fronds and tropical brush tighten around the edges of the canal. Although the home owners association opened up a park-like clearing and placed several picnic tables, no one goes there. It is too near the canal and the sign that says, “Beware of the Alligator!”
I stick to the sidewalk all the way to the bridge. I have my umbrella in one hand and the cell phone in my pocket, both for assurance. It is highly doubtful that I can protect myself with an umbrella against an alligator, but the feeling of having something in my hand comforts me.
I stop at the center of the bridge and stare into the opaque water. In its dark murkiness, it reflects the green vividly. Green reflections on muddy brown. Only a disturbed artist would paint that. Lucky me. There is no alligator in sight. Phew!
I knew something would prove lucky today. It has to do with the number seven. It is my seventh account birthday in WC. Yay! 
And in addition, another alligator did not lose its skin. 
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