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.
![Joy Sweeps [#1514072]
Kiya's gift. I love it!](http://www.InkSpot.Com/main/trans.gif)
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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.
![Rainbow/cascade [#1887119]
image for blog](http://www.InkSpot.Com/main/trans.gif)
October 6, 2025 at 1:56pm October 6, 2025 at 1:56pm
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Prompt:
If someone told you that a group of stars are going to appear in a certain pattern, foretelling an ancient curse is about to come true. Would you believe it or would you think of it as nonsense? And would you make up a story about it?
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Making up a story about it would be such fun, but then making up a story about anything is a lot of fun.
As to believing the cock-a-doodle-doo about the star patterns and an ancient curse, it is not my forte. But I can weave a few words around it, can't I!
Well, okay, here it goes, just maybe a bit on the dark side, but then, isn't a curse's place on the dark side, anyway?
This Cursed Earth
Across the night, they speak
in patterns of light, coiled like serpents,
hunters, swans, and that lion's mane,
burning again with hidden lore
I close my eyes and whisper, "No more!"
a mortal that I am, for a curse has bloomed
in Orion's belt and I hear my dead mother
weeping, from Virgo's veil, never to be seen again
Yet, old gods and rivers mirror the flame
beneath the soil and whisper my name,
for Leo's lamp is on our humanity's failing,
etched in burning runes, for the night
is now a tomb for this earth, which scars
the heavens with its long-forgotten moon's game,
and I am caught in the net of an ancient flame.
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