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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.
October 15, 2025 at 12:59pm October 15, 2025 at 12:59pm
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Prompt: Fog.
Since it is Halloween Month, write something about fog.
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Fog is usually referred to as a weather pattern. Today, though, I plan not to talk about that fog, the one pointing to a weather event. Instead, I'll try to look at it as a sigh. The sigh of a lifetime. And my sigh is sometimes one of sadness, sometimes one of relief.
Such a fog is not born of clouds but of the intangible spaces between my thoughts and reality. This fog doesn't fall but it unfurls. When I step into this fog, I step out of myself. This, I came to look at and learn as inevitable in old age. It is like the solid ground under my feet is just a suggestion or a memory, but not a certainty.
On the plus side, this fog makes sharp edges soften and blur into a haze of possibility. What is familiar, I question a lot, nowadays. This fog is now a veil, but not of ignorance or not paying attention. It is one of transition. It is where what is ordinary sheds its skin for a more in-depth feeling. The extraordinary, therefore, is there to be seen and appreciated and even loved. For a lost artist or writer, it is a sanctuary, as well as a playground for what was unseen, for the fog now cloaks the mundane.
Within this fog, time warps. Minutes become eternities. My Lifetime passes in a blink. When this fog rolls in, my memories swim to surface, not as clear remembrances but impressions carrying hues of what might have been and what never will be. Then, my intuition enters the stage with a sudden knowing, which bypasses logic and addresses my soul.
To be lost in such a fog is not a misfortune. Instead, it is an invitation to look beyond the known. It is that gentle reminder to me that truth is not often what I can see, but it's what I can feel, when I let myself enter into the secretive breath of this fog.
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you, WW! I give out full size bars, too.
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