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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, 2016 at 7:05pm September 25, 2016 at 7:05pm
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We had lunch at Barnes &Noble’s bookstore cafe, today. It was the cheapest lunch to eat out and the most fun. Well, the lunch was cheap but the money I spent on other purchases made up for the food. Bookstores and libraries are my kind of places, my natural habitat.
We sat at a small corner table with the view of the center service station which had large panels of writer portraits painted on top of it. From where I sat I could see Hemingway, Asimov, Mark Twain and the likes of them looking down at us from the panels attached to the ceiling.
My husband pointed to Emily Dickinson and said, “She doesn’t look well. Was she sickly or depressed?”
“She was a recluse,” I said, “but she’s one of my favorites.”
“Her poems sound like riddles to me,” he said, biting into his Philly Cheesesteak sandwich.
I wasn’t about to get into a long argument or explanation on the subject, so I too bit into my turkey and Brie sandwich instead and pointed to a shelf where the Fox commentator O’Reilly’s ‘killing’ books were on display. Killing the Rising Sun is a book we both wanted to read, not for O'Reilly's pretty face but for the book's historical context.
“Oh, I didn’t see that display,” Hubby said excitedly. “I’ll check it out.” Then he asked me, “How’s your sandwich?”
I grinned. “Put Brie on anything and watch me devour it.” And I took a big sip out of my tea. Since the café serves Starbucks coffee, which is never to my taste, I always drink tea.
“You didn’t get anything to read,” he said. “And you always read at home.”
“I’m people watching,” I said.
In fact, there was a lot to watch. There was a man at the next table talking to himself, which at first, I thought he was on his cell, but no, his cell phone had to be an invisible one or else he was really talking to himself. I took out my pen and note paper, starting taking notes on his personal conversation with himself.
Then, in the middle of the store where they had the Nooks on display, there was this young couple who were kind of hugging and playacting or something. “Foreplay…” hubby diagnosed. Sure enough, they rushed out of the store in a hurry. I hope their vehicle was a van with dark panels. It had better be.
Just when I had finished devouring my sandwich, a little girl about eight came through one of the aisles carrying a big box of something with difficulty; it could be a board game or even a play station, I thought. A woman who had to be her mother ran to her from the opposite direction, and their following argument had to be something for the comedic minds.
This is their conversation; well, approximately.
Little Girl: “I am taking this.”
Mother: “No, you’re not. It’s too expensive.”
Little Girl: “You said I could get just one thing. This is the just one thing I want.”
Mother: “I meant a book. Why isn’t it a book?”
Little Girl: “I can’t play with a book. Can I?”
If I were alone, I would have stood and followed them, but hubby must already think I’m not all there. So I kept on sitting and watched them walk back into the aisle to disappear among the shelves.
In addition, the store was crowded and many people, mostly alone and a good number of them possibly over 50, were walking among the shelves and gathering books and other items, with each one looking serious and involved in what they were doing. I spent a good while attaching imagined backstories to each one of them, but I was so involved with my people-watching that I didn’t notice my husband’s disappearance.
In a little while, his highness showed up with several magazines in his hand. “I brought you something, too,” he said, handing me a copy of the Writer’s Digest.
Holding back my laughter, I reached for the magazine, and said, “Thanks,” and flipped through its pages as if it were the most interesting reading material in the entire store. Who am I to burst anyone’s good-will-and-kindness bubble!
I already have a subscription to Writer’s Digest, which comes in the snail mail every few months. Men! 
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