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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!
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Kathleen-613's creation for my blog

"Failure is unimportant. It takes courage to make a fool of yourself."
CHARLIE CHAPLIN


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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


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This is my supplementary blog in which I will post entries written for prompts.

October 6, 2023 at 10:59am
October 6, 2023 at 10:59am
#1056868
Prompt:
“In October, a maple tree before your window lights up your room like a great lamp. Even on cloudy days, its presence helps to dispel the gloom.” ~
What's your favorite tree? Is it because of the leaf colors? Is it because of the smell? Is it connected to a childhood memory?


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I love the oaks, but not because they are connected to my childhood but to my sons' childhood memories, and to the memory of my young married life when we had oaks in the yard and I put a hammock in between two oaks and read and rested there, which in the long run, caused me to develop allergies and asthma every autumn against ragweed. *Laugh*

Here is something for OAK trees.


The mighty oaks with branches so high,
In a garden deep, where nostalgia sighs
Do they still stand as sentinels of time
With roots embedded in memories sublime?

Beneath their boughs a haven grand
Where chipmunks played on shaded land
And squirrels nibbled acorns to boot
In a garden so vibrant and life so good

Oak leaves in autumn turned ablaze
A fiery sight, a vivid maze
My sons jumped in piles, laughed with glee
Unaware of time which soon would flee.

Oaks taught us of resilience strong
In their presence, we all belonged
For an oak's a tree as a symbol bright
Promising rebirth resolute with light

Those mighty oaks, branches so high,
In a garden deep, where nostalgia sighs
Do they still stand as sentinels of time
Their roots embedded in memories sublime?


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