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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!
Everyday Canvas
#932658 added April 12, 2018 at 9:27pm
Restrictions: None
Colorful Living
Prompt: A colorful way of living. Write anything you want about this.

===

When I was much younger, I painted the walls in our bedroom, each wall a different color. Then I painted one wall blue in the living room but left the rest of the room stay white. The other rooms had dark panels, so I couldn’t touch them.

Yet, there is no need to come up with any coloring inside the house. I think, now, just being outdoors and watching the colors in nature is enough colorful living. Especially where we live now, we get fantastic sunsets with all the colors, different each time. Granted they don’t last long for being in the subtropics, but the colors are amazing. I also like the greens, all kinds of them, and multicolored tropical plants.

Color is a flexible thing, based on mood and time. Now that we are in April, the poetry month, colors exist in poetry too, and they can change or stay the same as a poet reacts to whatever he or she is writing about. Color in poetry comes about not only with the actual colors on the color wheel but also when the words and their sounds come together with a visible and energetic regularity. Can you see the colors in these lines by Rimbaud?

High glacial spears, white kings,
trembling Queen-Anne’s lace;
I, bloody spittle, laughter dribbling
from a face
In wild denial or in anger, vermilions
 ~

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