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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: Words
Use these words in your Blog entry today:
Shopping, Lake, Note, Picnic, Lighthouse, Beach
Have fun.
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These words reminded me of the time, more than forty years ago, when we took our sons to visit the lighthouse at Montauk point, at the end of Long Island, NY. The funny thing is, they weren't impressed at all.
"There's nothing here!" one remarked. The other said, "I thought we were going to a restaurant. When are we going to eat?"
My husband said, "But this is a very important visit..." and he went on to explain about the shipwrecks and how the lighthouses helped the sailors.
"But ships don't need this anymore! Ships have radars," the wise Alec older one said.
"They are going to turn this place into a museum," I said.
"Oh, that's okay, then!"
I still can't figure it out why the word museum somehow made a stronger impression on them. 
In fact, the Montauk lighthouse was turned into a museum in 1987, just a few years after we were there, and I still don't know why my sons preferred a museum over the lighthouse itself.
At Montauk Point
Beyond the cliffs, a *beach lies there,
where the *lighthouse stands
at the edge of the bay.
and breezes play for this beacon tall,
where ocean dreams and lets its waves
fall on history sleeping, and
a *picnic spread on a blanket near,
with memories sweet, moments dear
then, near a *lake not far inland,
a town is built by cool hands
where small shops in rows can invite
*shopping strolls into the night.
Yet, I only take *note of sailors' tales
and letters they wrote, on such choppy seas
of lore, as treasures for me to adore.
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