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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
"Failure is unimportant. It takes courage to make a fool of yourself."
CHARLIE CHAPLIN
Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn
anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive
is too small for you.
David Whyte
This is my supplementary blog in which I will post entries written for prompts.
October 7, 2015 at 4:18pm October 7, 2015 at 4:18pm
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Prompt: October gave a party. The leaves by hundreds came. The chestnuts, oaks and maples and leaves of every name. Write your thoughts on this.
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I haven’t watched and enjoyed the leaves of October in years, but I remember them.
The loveliness of a single fall leaf even a dried coppery one, with its gentle curls is a sight to behold. Yet, October in The North is a multi-colored month with stunning hues, particularly when a calm day allows for hiking, sightseeing, and reflecting in solitude.
Not everything is always calm, though; there is the rain that leaves leaving its drops shining like pearls on everything, and there is the wind swirling the colors off the trees. Maples and some of the oaks paint their leaves blood-red, and gusts make them fall like scarlet rain, letting them stain the hollow parts of the ground. Beech trees, on the other hand, dress in the getups of the Buddhist monks; whereas, cottonwoods, birches, and poplars reflect the neon yellow of a once cheery sun. Then some ornamental trees like dogwoods turn a deep maroon, one of my favorite colors.
These hues and tints and then a party with tiny ghosts and goblins trick or treating, and all things pumpkin. I can taste the pumpkin pie inside my mind even when the season isn’t fall, as it is a taste is etched in my brain cells.
In New England, spigots milking syrup from the maple trees is a sight in addition to all the color and taste, with anything maple being offered to people at the roadsides with apples galore. Cooler temperatures also bring flannel shirts, warm Levis, and boots that I now know I won't wear again and won't experience once more walking on sepia grass and hearing the crispy, snapping leaves.
How can I when, even on a cooler day, the temperature doesn’t fall below 85 degrees and the grass and the trees flaunt all shades of green? Where I am, colors come in flowers, birds, and sunsets, but not from nature getting ready for the underworld. |
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