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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.
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Prompt:
Have fun with these random words: land, myth, duty, duke, requirement, denial, number, document, bush, and normal.
------------Here's a story-poem, so to speak. 
Counting Sheep
Some said a *duke
once lived there, on the edge
of a quiet *land, where hills
leaned against the sky
and the wind often told stories
older than maps,
and people spoke of *myth,
*normal for them, though
what's normal can be iffy,
for the duke lived
not in a castle of gold,
but in a small stone house
behind a crooked *bush
of wild roses,
a life, almost unusual
for he counted his sheep,
carrying under his arm,
a worn leather *document
and not minding the whispers
of the villagers who
claimed of a *requirement
cast upon him
a *duty of sorts from long ago;
a promise with a *number
signed and sealed by a king
whose name has now slipped
into myth, his decree saying
the duke must remain there
guarding the sheep,
the land, and its silence,
and when people asked him,
"Why stay here alone?"
the duke smiled in gentle *denial
as if the question
was far from the truth;
then, maybe it was,
for some promises
are meant to be lived
and not to be explained,
just like the story the wind
repeats through the branches
of the Duke's rose bush.
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