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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.
February 11, 2015 at 3:23pm February 11, 2015 at 3:23pm
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Prompt: It was a dark and stormy night. What happened? Thank you, Snoopy.
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It was as if the whole world trembled. Windows rattled with thunder, and the rain fell in torrents, except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by several violent gusts of wind that swept up the street into and over the stone wall. The darkness was pure, visionless, except for the occasional lightning tearing through the sky and haunting the underlings with bursts of blue, purple, and white light.
The night was dark and stormy all right, but the next day shone as if all the skilled painters in Heaven offered their brushstrokes to those of us on earth. Their creativity set the maples on fire, turned the oaks russet, and the beeches first yellow then to gold. Autumn’s brazen fire torched all the others, dogwoods, buttercups, cherries, into a palette of colorful light. This blissful imagery’s uproar lulled me into contemplation.
As living for me meant vision, the powerful flashes of lightning that blinded versus the lovely colors of the next day seemed to be joke, an extremist’s joke. Extremes hinted at a longing for death or violence, and I hated all extremes. Whoever created the vicious cycle of birth and death--of seasons, of people, of anything--had to be an extremist. Thoughts like this, when I told them to my mother, she washed my mouth with soap, and the priest gave me more Hail Marys than Mary herself would have liked.
So each year, in October, I decided inside my eight-year-old mind to skip town, the state, or if possible, the country, but then, sooner or later spring and summer arrived, and this decision together with all the other secret ones were put on hold. Who’d know then, that once I became of age, I would depend on the extremist this much and be grateful to Him all through my days, despite the dark and stormy nights and even those surprising bursts of fall colors, especially because nature in autumn encouraged my allergies!
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