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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.
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Prompt: What places in your hometown bring back the best memories? Write about this in your Blog entry today.
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If I have to be specific, I have to say it is the main street and the community park.
As a teen, I was mesmerized by the main street for it was, to me, the main artery for life's heartbeat. It pulsed with activity and humor. The sound of the traffic reminded me of the constant motion of community life. Our main street was lined with shops of all kinds with several of them on the higher floors of the buildings with varying architecture. Also, there were a few boutiques and cafes, some stretching on to the sidewalk with tables and chairs.
I remember once, during my early teens, --when my six cousins were visiting-- we were walking on the main street when a sudden rainfall caught us. Instead of taking shelter, we decided to get drenched. We kept lingering under the rain, our laughter echoing off the pavement as we were enjoying one another's company and...getting wet.
Maybe in those days, getting drenched together might have been considered the most fun for us, but when we reached home, my mother and other adults didn't think so. In hindsight, I don't blame them as we all were soaked wet to our bones and dripping. They made us stop and stand at the entrance hallway with the stone tiles, so the water flowing from us could pool there for easy cleaning. Then, they came at us with towels and scoldings. Now, many decades later, when I talk to my cousins, we all recall that day.
Another beautiful place was our town park. It was on the shore with the view of the sea and the boats, and inside the park, everything was green with tall trees and lawns. Benches near the flower beds were the best places for reading and relaxing.
This park didn't have the swings and slides for children or gazebos and such that I had noticed in other towns, but at the far back of our park, was the bus stop. If you walked far enough into the park and looked carefully toward the back of it, you could see the passengers getting on and off the busses.
But busses were not my thing. I usually sat with a friend on a bench and talked or just sat there by myself and read a book, momentarily raising my gaze to the shore and the boats and the big beautiful sea. This natural beauty was usually enough to calm a tense and fidgety young person like me. To this day, when I feel a little unnerved, I close my eyes and recall those scenes and I feel comforted by their memories.
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