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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.
September 25, 2014 at 12:06pm September 25, 2014 at 12:06pm
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At this moment--the day before Halloween, the day before my loony cousin's wedding--on the clear October sky, the sun is sharpening its daggers of light on us earthlings beneath, and the light wind is stirring the dry, brittle leaves that hiss, hobble, and crackle. All this seemingly gentle and reflective atmosphere is more absurd than anything I have ever experienced.
Technically speaking, I used to be a girl, up to a day or two ago, on the coast of Rhode Island. As is the standing tradition, my cousin asked me, no-made me, to become one of the bridesmaids for her wedding on Halloween night. Then she chose those god-awful outfits for us: long sleeved burnt-orange dress, matching shoes and burnt-orange brocade tiara with a green tulle tail hanging at the back. All we needed was a fairy godmother to turn us into carriages, but instead, right after the wedding rehearsal, uneasy and feeling foolish for having imbibed quite a bit that night, I plopped on the bed without changing my clothes.
At midnight, I opened my eyes, still spooked from the dream of a man made of dead, rotting leaves whirling, turning, and rushing at me. Yet, it was no dream. Fearful and unable to put up a fight, I began twirling and whirling with him. Together we whirled down the stairs, out of the back door, into my father's now-empty vegetable patch, where we twirled all night long.
When the dawn broke, the leaf-man scattered around, and I stood alone in the middle of a now-barren patch. I wanted to scream, but I couldn't talk. Heck, I couldn't even move.
A few hours later, people came running about, calling my name; among them were my mother and aunt, tripping on each other's shoes. The two stopped just at the edge of the patch.
"Now she's done the worst," my mother said, panting furiously. "This is too much. Just too much. We were all bridesmaids at one time and bore the brunt of wearing some horrific stuff, like the young ladies we were."
My aunt said, "She hated her outfit. Maybe we should let her wear what she wants."
Then someone screamed. "Look, a pumpkin! Right in the middle of the patch."
"I don't remember Gus putting pumpkin seeds into the ground," Mom said. "No stems, leaves or any indication of a plant. Someone must have put it there."
"It must be your daughter's theatrical fashion of showing her aversion."
"Never mind, Dear," Mom said. "Let her be. Let's call back the search party. I'm sure she'll show up after the wedding."
Fat chance, I will show up again. How can I?
So, that is why I sit here on the porch and mope with my insides gone, holes etched on one side, and supporting a wax candle in the hollow of my center. Someone will light the candle after the sun sets, which will dry me up even more.
Step by step, my family is reducing me to smithereens.
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Prompt: You are a pumpkin sitting on a porch. What sights do you see? What are your thoughts?
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