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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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Everyday Canvas #1009638 added May 4, 2021 at 10:38am
Restrictions: None
May 4, 2021
For "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" 
Prompt “Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky.”
Khalil Gibran, Sand and Foam
What do you think about this quote, and in what ways life is like a tree?
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Trees are like poetry in the way that a poem inspires and stays with us after we’ve read it. Looking at a tree is like that, too. Who wouldn’t feel inspired, rejuvenated, and thankful for the existence of that tree after watching it and really noticing it?
Trees inspire deep thoughts in people just like life, in being breathing and serene entities. Plus, their lives are longer than ours. They might even be wiser than we are since they have lived longer and experienced more.
Trees are also like life in the way they can flourish even under the worst circumstances. They can also stretch upward and downward, establishing roots, something of a reminder of so many people and even other living beings.
Then, have you ever watched a burned down forest giving off new shoots? If that’s not life, I don’t know what is.
For: "Space Blog"
Prompt: On Sharmelle'sThankfulExpressions   ’s "The Barn Owl That Said Mooooo"
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Just the title alone is funny in this piece.
On barns, however, I have little knowledge or experience. Having said that, I can’t forget the abandoned barn in a partially abandoned farm we visited during the mid-nineteen-eighties as part of a sightseeing trip. Somehow, its door made me sad enough to shed a tear or two. It was a heavy door, left half open, and it had lost some of its slats. The barn itself was crouching a bit forward like an old man with a bent-back, with its once red color turning brown.
Yet, there’s a happy ending to this barn. My friend in that area wrote to tell me that the very barn that had made me sad was recovered, spruced up, and was being re-used as an arts and crafts workshop, mostly for making quilts. Now, when I think of this experience, instead of feeling sad, I feel recharged and happy, thinking there’s no end to the creativity and wisdom of our people, especially in that area.
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