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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 #1087991 added April 25, 2025 at 11:58am
Restrictions: None
Stranded?
Prompt:
On this day in 1719, Daniel Defoe’s fictional work The Life and Strange Adventures of Robinson Crusoe is published. The book, about a shipwrecked sailor who spends 28 years on a deserted island, is based on the experiences of shipwreck victims and of Alexander Selkirk, a Scottish sailor who spent four years on a small island off the coast of South America in the early 1700s.
In your entry today, write about being stranded on a deserted island. What would you do to keep yourself sane?
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I'd be so weirded out if I were ever stranded on a deserted island, as if I am not so weird, as it is now. I guess, at first, I'd be mulling over the facts about how this happened to me, where I went wrong, and why this!
Once, the mulling and grieving would be over, survival instinct would probably take hold and adrenaline would keep me moving. My needs would be: water, food, shelter, and safety.
Once I handled those basic needs, (as if I could!), I would set up a routine. This is because routines, loosely speaking, seem to help me greatly in my present life.
Surely, I'd wake with the sun, due to the lack of the eye-mask I now use in the mornings. Then, I'd forage for food. Fishing or traps or such I won't even mention. I just can't kill animals; although I have no qualms about eating them, if they come from the butcher or the supermarket. This would force me to turn into a vegetarian, which would greatly please my older son who is a vegan--unlike anyone else in the family--if he knew somehow I wasn't eating animal products. But I digress.
Since I always have a need to know the time, I might try to keep a loose sense of it, possibly by collecting pebbles and putting a pebble for each day in a corner of the shelter I might have built or the cave I might be using.
As to company, I'd probably be okay, with that one. As it is, I am used to talking to myself and to wild life. You should listen in to hear how I address the baby salamanders that perch on the windowsill of my now-kitchen, not to mention the birds and squirrels and rabbits out there on the lawn. I somehow have the feeling that once a wild animal catches on to my talking to it, it responds in its own ways. No, I'm not making this up. I really believe it. Try it yourself and you'll see!
Then, I might even make up stories and poems and write them on the sand. And, just maybe, I would also hope someone nice and friendly and much more capable than me would become stranded on my island, too.
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