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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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A Cup Full of Humble Fragrance #755220 added June 19, 2012 at 2:00pm
Restrictions: None
Moss (June 19 - Moss)
After a major sale at Target, cement and plastic gnome statuettes crowded the yards on South Oaks Road. Next, jungle gardens descended like an epidemic, and moss began creeping all over the patios, the pavement, on and in between the stones, up the tree trunks and killing the grass. It hung from the branches and jumped to rooftops and the sides of the houses.
At first, the neighborhood looked like a fairyland to Brooke. Sunlight rarely penetrated through, and shade helped cool the air on hot summer days.
After some time, however, people started complaining about the humidity and the wetness, and how their cars skidded coming out of the driveways. No matter what they did, people could not remove the stubborn moss. The most experienced gardeners and landscaping companies were useless, also.
Why is it people are blind to the beauty and intricacy of shade? thought Brooke. But after a while, when the dampness started affecting her health and her knees gave way with arthritis, she too began to feel uncomfortable.
During the next meeting of the neighborhood association, Brooke raised her hand to speak.
"As a former research assistant, I believe, we should examine the beginning or the conception of things. As I think back, before the moss, we put gnome statuettes in our gardens. I suggest we remove them."
"Hogwash! I never heard such bullshit in all my life. Don't tell me an imaginary creature, a statuette, much less, is creating this catastrophe," answered the association president.
"Let's get rid of the gnomes. You may not believe it, but what can go wrong if we try? No other remedy has helped," said Emma, Brooke's friend and the secretary of the association.
People discussed other solutions, but they couldn't arrive at a decision by the end of the meeting. Still, next morning, most of the gnomes were out on the curb for the garbage trucks to haul them away.
Brooke had placed three gnomes on the lawn, one cement, two plastic. She pulled and pushed the heavy cement statuette, almost losing her footing on the slippery moss in the process, but somehow, she managed to carry it to the curb.
Her plastic gnomes were light enough. She took one of them to the curb but didn't want to throw away the third one. How could she? Her mother, a month before she died, had given it to her. That gnome she carried into the basement. Then, for the upcoming church sale, she prepared a cake and put it in the oven.
"Hmmm! Smells heavenly,"
Who was talking? Brooke looked around but couldn't see anyone. Thinking, Emma was paying her a visit, she opened the kitchen door to the living room.
"Oh, no!" She gasped, looking around. Moss had covered the rug and was creeping up the walls, the couch, chairs, tables...
"Don't you like it?' The door to the basement creaked open. The gnome, combing his black beard with his long fingers, stood in the hallway. He laughed and shook his red pointy red hat, then stopped to suck on his pipe.
Something had to be making Brooke hallucinate all this, although she didn't recall going overboard with Jose Cuervo lately.
Before she could answer the gnome, moss began climbing up her legs, her torso, her head. Her body felt damp inside and out. Now moss was everywhere, and Brooke had become part of it. Darkness settled slowly, and her thoughts stopped.
The gnome danced around his new creation, and shrieked. "A woman of moss, fantastic! Such an idiotic species, her kind!"
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prompt: Moss |
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