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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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Everyday Canvas #867052 added November 25, 2015 at 4:29pm
Restrictions: None
Textures
Prompt: Textures are everywhere. Rough edges of a stone wall. Touch of a baby's cheek. The sense of touch brings back memories for us. What texture holds special memories for you?
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The texture of steam, hot, moist, rising. I try to hold it but it eludes me, like night dreams fading, but unlike words with different textures that I love to caress. Although sometimes, my words are prickly like steel wool, yet they topple crusted dirt and sunk-in pain.
Still, the smoothness of a kitten’s fur is a magnet for my touch, as it feels like velvet teeming with plushness in intensity and depth; now, after being spoiled with the grain of this fabric that seduces my sense of touch, I need something different, like water merging its song with the skin on my face, like mud I used to squish under my boots when I was a kid, like potato chips crispy and thin when I crunch them in between my teeth.
Textures, for me, beat in tune with time, holding memories of softening hearts and hardening hearts and landslides of feelings in closeness, while our lowered voices celebrate each breath.
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