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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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Daily Cascade
Since my old blog "Everyday Canvas "  became overfilled, here's a new one. This new blog item will continue answering prompts, the same as the old one.
Cool water cascading to low ground
To spread good will and hope all around.
January 17, 2026 at 2:39pm January 17, 2026 at 2:39pm
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Prompt:
Imagine you're opening your own writing-themed restaurant. Name it and provide a list of signature dishes. Be creative!
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Joy's Misplaced Metaphor Cafe
Welcome friends, welcome all, Lyn and Co,
and WdC, to my colon-shaped cafe, although
the sign out front misspells things, in strife
I have crossed it with a comma-shaped knife
and, sorry, inside, my chairs don't agree with the tables
and the walls are papered in unfinished fables
as menus ramble, sentences dangle at mid-thought,
my theme trails off in ideas not well-caught
so I propped my thesaurus on a wobbling leg
then stamped the napkins, "Don't leave, I beg!"
the chef is moi, once a writer, that I insist
since I've stirred the soup with a pen as a deli twist
I seasoned by mood, by mistake, or instinct
but "now halt" said the man from the precinct
to salt, pepper, and cumin in my signature dishes
"I can't taste this twice," he said, but with good wishes
my overwritten onion soup layered again and again,
until me, the chef, forgets where it all began
and my purple-prose pasta so floral and thick
in adjective sauce, to any tummy will stick
my run-on ravioli runs to spill off the plate
then arrives back, still alive, long after you ate
my show-don't-tell steak, juicy, profound
it too is aggressive and stays around
and every night, as my kitchen sighs
I smile at my uneaten pies
although my food sure is a narrative mess
it's my cafe and I'll write nevertheless.
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© Copyright 2026 Joy (UN: joycag at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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