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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
"Failure is unimportant. It takes courage to make a fool of yourself."
CHARLIE CHAPLIN
Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn
anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive
is too small for you.
David Whyte
This is my supplementary blog in which I will post entries written for prompts.
January 30, 2020 at 11:28pm January 30, 2020 at 11:28pm
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Prompt: It all started when
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Goody, goodie!  I think we have another free-flow prompt. So, without much ado, here it goes:
It all started when I set down my mug of coffee and reached for her hand. She was falling apart, and I wanted to console her. Letting me hold her hand, she told me why. Two hours earlier, her cat had jumped up and had broken a few figurines. Something in her voice gave me a chill. But I felt for the cat, not the figurines.
For all I know, after I left, she is still mourning the breakage of a family heirloom, a crystal bird and those figurines. Yet, those broken thingamagics are not victims. She is the gullible, innocent victim. Her cat is even more of a victim.
I bet that cat, due to her constant scolding, is still trembling and hiding inside the large carton box from Amazon. While I was there, that poor, furry, alive animal kept shifting its weight, probably debating--inside his mind with fear--whether it is still okay to use his litterbox. I bet, now, he can only move about when she isn’t around.
Yes, I think the culprit is not the cat but those objects. All those figurines assigned to people’s lives and their backgrounds…They could not be separated from their purposes, as they continued accomplishing missions decades after decades. Missions of causing her and people like her to brag about lifeless stuff. Lifeless though they were, those things were an army of objects and their inheritors were their unsuspecting victims. They got under the skins of the elderly who put a lot of stake in material possessions, especially if they were from their once-hated-now-beloved families.
Do you see why the core premise of valuing material things over live things is so flawed? It means having nothing but memories and guilt. An overwhelming guilt of loss, love, and grief. As it has to be in her case.
Those figurines may just be the guiltiest things since they symbolized such feelings of hers, however hidden from her consciousness. Those figurines and the crystal bird that plunged to their doom, letting her ancestral alarm go off inside her cellular level, ripping the map of her life that she created through her faulty map-drawing skills.
Long ago, I had promised myself that I would be wary of people that held material things more dearly than alive things. Yet, I still befriend such people. When did I stop trusting my own perceptions or are they the ones that are flawed? I am still gritting my teeth when I think of that cat. But then, together with the cat, she is the one to feel sorry for. She is the one betrayed by her figurines.
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January 30, 2020 at 1:19pm January 30, 2020 at 1:19pm
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Prompt: Do you like living in 2020 or do you wish you would have lived in 1920?
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To tell the truth, it is not the time or era but it is the place that gets to me. If I were to find another planet or livable place that is much better than planet earth, where kindness and unity are the top priority for all inhabitants and not the fake assumptions such as status and wealth, I would be out of here in a blink.
But dreaming aside, as much as the 1920s were fun, I know what happened then and what followed that decade, like the Great Depression and World War II. At least, with 2020, I don’t know what the year will bring.
This goes along the lines of my reading habits. If I were to pick up a fictional book to read, I wouldn’t want to know what exactly happened in it. In fact, I don’t read a novel twice. Where’s the fun and excitement in something you already know about?
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