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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. Kiya's gift. I love it!
Off the Cuff / My Other Journal
#809144 added March 6, 2014 at 1:04am
Restrictions: None
This Unending Winter...
The winter god lives in the wildest of skies, where no birds, planes, or supermen dare to fly. The fierce ice and the thick snow drifts experiment with voodoo, combining their powers as if to suck the joy out of earthlings.

Then, together with the chilling wind and tumbling snow, my kids walk in tracking piles of the white stuff beneath their boots. They complain that the pond is frozen, and they have given up on the snowman. So cold from their eyelashes dangle crystals of ice. So cold even the dog whines.

But we have hot soup inside, fire in the fireplace, and mother's love. And we all know daddy will be home soon, his ears and hands numb.

Don't shoot me, but I just lied to you...a bit.

I lied by writing the first three paragraphs above in the present tense, as if it is happening to me today, this year. I should have written those in past perfect because my kids are grown now, and we live in South Florida, where winters are so mild that, on a rare day or two, if the temperature falls under 40 F, Floridians wear everything they own in layers, thinking the poles shifted or it is Armageddon.

Truth is, those things in the beginning paragraphs did happen to me...a long time ago, when we lived in New York. So they are just twisted memories turned upside down and thrown forward in time. They are not perfect lies. But then, nothing I do is ever perfect.

My downfall is, I love grabbing words to twirl them around, just to beat thoughts into submission so they can play a few tricks. Then, after the tricks are done, I shake them up, so maybe the truth comes out. Just as, Albert Camus said: " Truth, like light, blinds. Falsehood, on the contrary, is a beautiful twilight that enhances every object." Now, doesn't my referring to this quote show that, once upon a dinosaur time, I used to worship the existentialists?

And no, I am not gloating or acting according to the once-upon-a-time commercial's message: If you got it, flaunt it! No flaunting here, and I do feel for those who have suffered with the unending winter, this year.

I think, however, this year's savage winter in the country is an abnormal event, and it will pass soon enough. So, dear friends, believe me I hate to read in the news and see online and on TV all that you're suffering through, and I commiserate with you in spirit, while I keep writing every which way...and loose.

© Copyright 2014 Joy (UN: joycag at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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