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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.
November 3, 2023 at 12:47pm November 3, 2023 at 12:47pm
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Prompt:
On November 3rd Black Bart makes his last stagecoach robbery. I've included the link if you're needing some inspiration. If you lived in the 1800's and wanted to commit a robbery, what kind of robbery would you commit and where do you think it would be ideal to commit your crime?
Or maybe you'd rather be like Stagecoach Mary the daring black woman who protected stagecoaches instead of choosing a life of crime.
Have fun and remember the minimum is five lines to be counted. Maybe you'll be inspired to write more.
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You know, it's challenging enough to be living in the first part of the 21st century after having gone through all that in the second half of the 20th century. Why would I want to go to the eighteen hundreds, then?
Why because the prompt asks me to.  So here it goes:
I, Sammy, (actually Samantha Wright) have been known for my sharp eyes, quick reflexes and unwavering resolve to safeguard the travelers and, in my case, the mail carriage of the stagecoach Company Concord, owned by my father. On this miserable late autumn day, however, with the protector-guard of a travelers' coach suddenly falling ill, I had to take over for him and guard that coach without even my father knowing about this situation.
This particular stagecoach would be carrying a wealthy heiress, from San Francisco to some place called Eureka in Nevada, to be betrothed to a rich miner who had struck gold. Although, Miss Abigail, the heiress, shivered when she saw me with my Winchester rifle, I whispered to her that she shouldn't be scared because although in a man's attire, I was a woman. She gave me a wry smile and said in a thin voice, "Heavens, I do not know whether to relax or be more worried."
Why some women think they are so helpless, passes me by. Anyway, at least, she wouldn't be afraid of me or my intentions concerning her you know what.
Somewhere along the way, when we had just entered the vast plains of the Nevada, a pack of notorious outlaws descended on us. I yelled at Abigail to kneel down inside the coach and take cover, although I felt for her since she was probably wearing a tight corset and several petticoats.
Then, I started shooting. The bandits were fierce fighters. Their bullets whizzed past me, Thank the Lord, but they splintered the wooden coach and the hoofs of their horses picked up a cloud of dust. Yet, I remained untouched for a good while as my trusty rifle, echoed through the valley.
With each outlaw that fell, the remaining ones grew wilder and their attacks became more desperate. Then a stray bullet found its mark on my shoulder. Luckily, for us, a Sheriff with his posse arrived and took care of the situation.
I was wounded but the stagecoach driver was in a worse shape. He wasn't too badly hurt but both his hands were shot, and he had wet himself with fear. Thus, the job of driving the stagecoach to Eureka fell on me, with two of the Sheriff's men riding near us as guards. "Take care of that shoulder, Will ya?" said the Sheriff to me as he and his men took the remaining two outlaws with them.
My worst worry, however, wasn't my shoulder. It was my father. What if he'd take me away from my job and marry me off? I took a look at Miss Abigail. She was all white still and shivering with fear. I'd hate to wear corsets and petticoats and be scared of my own shadow, like her.
Please Lord, help me with my father!
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