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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.
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Back on the saddle again! Missed you, blogger friends and my blog item! Just that we were just so so busy in GOT…
Anyhow, as I said, back on the saddle again!
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Prompt: Right now I am looking up at the ceiling; when outside, I look up at the sky, the clouds, and the tops of trees. Do you ever look up, and what does looking up mean to you?
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People always ask me, what are you looking at? It is for the reason that my eyes are always on the clouds.
I adore clouds. Possibly because I am not a bird and cannot reach them. I even look at the from the airplane window, when, instead being up there they are down there. Yet, most of the time, clouds are up there.
Although I am not the one to admit to it, there are dangers to looking up. Stumbling or falling or stepping into something I don’t want to step in, for example.
Another thing I like when I look up is the underside of the leaves or the whole canopy of trees. I used to do that all the time just to catch the glint of sunlight through the foliage when we had all those oaks, elms, and cherry trees in our yard. Then we visited California, and the redwoods almost gave me a whiplash.
Nowadays, it is the underside of palms but there isn’t much to see there, but from among the palm fronds, I love to see the sky, and on some nights, the full moon.
Then, of course, who doesn’t like to look to the horizon and up, at the beach, just to gaze at the thin line that separates the underling creation from the higher ups.
Maybe it is the infinite and the eternal I want to see when I look up. Maybe it is because I imagine things are cleaner up there. When you come down to it, this planet, which used to be a beautiful place, now is going to hell in a handbasket, and I am not talking about the physical dirt alone. I am only noticing that the moral high ground has taken flight, too, way-way up over the clouds.
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