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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 #937524 added July 6, 2018 at 2:13pm
Restrictions: None
A Goldstar Grandma
You've met three people on your way to do an errand. They're all talking about something they overheard but are positive you're the reason it's happening. Are they right or wrong? Weave us a tale about the three people and yourself and whatever is happening.
If you can tie it in with the prompt in BCoF, you'll have a chance at merit badge by virtual draw.
BCOF prompt: Use these words somehow in your writing. enchanted, twilight, fireflies, rose, carousel, lion, and tinman.
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I was in a rush, and while picking up a grocery cart at the entrance carousel of our local Publix, I heard someone say, “That was the cart I had my eyes on, and she picked it before me.”
What? Weren’t all the carts the same? On closer inspection, I spotted a carved design on the back shelf of the cart where sometimes babies sit and I sometimes place my purse on, but after wiping it, as I know enough about baby tushies. The design had a lion and a tinman holding a rose while fireflies hovered above the figures, but it was unnoticeable at first sight for its being only an etching on plastic although it was large enough to cover the entire shelf.
“Well, I never! I’m in the twilight of my years, I never saw such rudeness.”
I turned around and saw three old ladies (well, older than me), whispering to each other, but their whispers, due to their being hard of hearing, were being caught by all ears around us.
I pushed the cart in front of them. “Is this the cart you wanted?”
One of the ladies, the one wearing a taupe shirt with paisley design, beamed. “Well, of course. How did you know? Are you psychic?”
“I overheard you,” I said.
The one in the blue shirt rolled her eyes. “Enchanted!”
Disregarding her comment, I asked, “Why is this cart special to you? Is it for the design?”
“My grandson etched it when he was here. That was ten years ago. Now, I pick that cart whenever we have to shop,” said the paisley shirt.
“Artistic!”
She nodded. “He’s overseas, now! Fighting!”
A Goldstar grandma! I felt like saluting her, but I said nothing. I had to talk to the manager about that cart. It had to be saved in a special place to be used only for these ladies.
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