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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 #933475 added April 26, 2018 at 1:51pm
Restrictions: None
Cheri & Singing
Prompt: Have you ever done karaoke? What kind of songs do you like to do? If you haven't... have you thought about it?
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No, I wouldn’t sing in a crowd or for others as my singing would frighten the frogs. On my own, I can’t hold a tune. Funny thing is I know immediately whatever croaking coming out of my mouth is faulty and doesn't fit the music at all, but I have no control over my voice or my breath (due to asthma).
Still, I have tiny music players with earbuds that fit a shirt pocket. Sometimes, while doing housework I sing a song along with them. My husband says I sound good. But he is biased or afraid  to say anything to hurt me.
Prompt: One of our long Blog City members passed away on Monday Cheri Annemos, please take a moment of silence in her memory.
If in the event of your own demise, have you considered what happens to your writing here on WDC? Does your family know how to access it? Or would you rather they not see your writing? I know I keep saying I'll get around to it.
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Cheri  was a kind, generous, and gentle soul. She worked well in a team or alone. And she didn’t like mentioning her disease, that awful cancer. I will always remember her as a fine friend, teammate, and a WdC writer. May she rest in peace and in the light.
“My good, my noble, in their prime,
Who made this world the feast it was,
Who learned with me the lore of time,
Who loved this dwelling-place.”
From Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Dirge
As to my demise, if my offspring are so keen on my writing, they’ll find a way to get it. If they don’t, so be it. Almost all of my writing is on my flash drives, at least in their original forms before edits. Some have the edits. I also have a place from which they can get my passwords and stuff.
I really don’t care about what legacy I’ll leave behind or if anyone sings a song or plants a flower. That I know I didn’t hurt anyone knowingly is enough for me and whatever effects I leave behind are what I leave behind.
This is because when death comes for me, it’ll find me ready and willing. Then, I hope to God, I don’t reincarnate on this earth again, a place created to be beautiful but one that is so full of rage, selfishness, and hate, with some unkind, self-important people in mobs siding with one unimportant and hateful party or another, against their fellow human beings with the excuse of hanging on to the premises of resisting or fixing (in their way) something or other.
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