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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.
December 8, 2017 at 11:39pm December 8, 2017 at 11:39pm
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Prompt: "Such a shame. That boy had such promise." Shaking her head, she remembered some of the times she'd seen him...
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"Such a shame. That boy had such promise." Shaking her head, she remembered some of the times she'd seen him jump into his snowmobile and time travel to centuries ahead and return safely.
She was just getting ready to go after him when she spotted his snowmobile curving around the satellite receivers. He had returned, walking out of the shadows, again.
“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t know where the time went, although I wasn’t far away. I was actually only 13 years into the future where I met your future self. That is why I am late getting back.”
“You did? What will I look like, then?” she closed her eyes and imagined the wind ruffling her then-grayed hair in a fully matured face. She would probably look more alluring with age.
“Actually,” he swallowed his next breath. “You will be on your death bed. I tried to save you, but it was of no use.”
Oh, that fear of death! It always arose when she was mentally and physically frail, and the slightest ailment could make her worry, but then wasn’t life a matter of luck? “You’re making this up, aren’t you? I don’t believe you, and I am not going to die when I am 53. That is just too early,” she said, staring at him, wondering.
He shrugged. “Fine,” he said. “If you don’t believe me, don’t believe me,” and he stretched his arms and as if wanting to hug her, but didn’t. Instead, he hopped on his snowmobile again and zigzagged into a distant fog.
“Don’t go,” she yelled after him. “That is the wrong direction. That wormhole eats up everything.”
But he didn’t hear her. Clearly, his life was about to end, since all his fears had evaporated.
At least she had thirteen more years to go, and she had a lingering attachment to a life of value. Her own life.
“Such a shame,” she said again. “That boy had such promise.”
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December 8, 2017 at 11:29am December 8, 2017 at 11:29am
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Prompt: I added a dab of this, a dribble of that and I stirred. Within seconds it was over ... Yeah right, now, tell us what really happened ...
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What really happened was after I began to chant, “double, double toil and trouble//Fire burn and caldron bubble, ” the cauldron shrunk considerably in size.
Then, the mysterious sounds started with increased frequency and force, minute by minute. I checked my mortar and pestle to see if I pounded some outside unwanted element into the recipe.
I checked the Tarot cards, but I ended up with a migraine from their gloomy moods. By now, the mysterious sounds were rattling and howling like the winds in a hurricane. Distressed, I decided, as the last resort, to call our queen, Ẃeβ࿚Ẃỉtcĥ, to the rescue. That wasn’t easy either because the candle’s flame I was concentrating on was trying to control the last dregs of my energy.
Webwitch, however, heard me because only she could. The other officials…well, you know how local governments work. They hinder and bother instead of helping.
Webwitch arrived on the wings of her dragon she calls Ruby. With a flick of her wrist, she got rid of my migraine. Then she said, “Cut this noise out, will ya! You can’t even do that, I see. I’ll write a recommendation for the locals to put you in the middle of their circle, next time your coven meets. Okay, I’ll take care of it." And she muttered, "With every small fry’s bumblings, I have to do all the work. This isn’t fair to your queen, you know.”
I was speechless of course. In the presence of our queen who is so longwinded and clever with words, me the small potato is expected to stay tongue-tied and voiceless. So I pointed to my shrunk cauldron.
“What?” Webwitch screamed. “Isn’t that the receptacle I sent you? How can you do this to my gift?”
I looked down, waiting for my punishment. Luckily, she shrugged it off and rushed to the cauldron. With a wave of her arm, the cauldron took its original shape. She peeked into it and straightened up immediately.
“You moron!” she sneered. “Your nuts and bolts are missing. You forgot the lizard’s leg and the baboon’s blood. You can’t bring him to you without a full splurge. Don’t expect to throw a banquet with finger foods only. Next time, set your aim lower.”
And in saying that, our queen took off.
Shucks! I guess I’ll never be able to lure Shakespeare’s energy to me. Maybe I can try for Mary Oliver or Billy Collins. But then, they may be over my head, too.
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