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.
![Joy Sweeps [#1514072]
Kiya's gift. I love it!](http://www.InkSpot.Com/main/trans.gif)
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Everyday Canvas
![My Blog's Graphic [#1126709]
Kathleen-613's creation for my blog](http://www.InkSpot.Com/main/trans.gif)
"Failure is unimportant. It takes courage to make a fool of yourself."
CHARLIE CHAPLIN
![Blog City image small [#1971183]
Blog City image small](http://www.InkSpot.Com/main/trans.gif)
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
![Blog City Citizen image [#1979138]
Marci's gift sig](http://www.InkSpot.Com/main/trans.gif)
This is my supplementary blog in which I will post entries written for prompts.
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Prompt: Write whatever sparks your writing with this opening line "As night became day, the conclusion was clear but were we ready for the answer?"
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As night became day, the conclusion was clear, but were we ready for the answer? I had thought about this a lot while I watched the late night news, which wasn’t exactly a bunch of red roses but more like poison ivy.
We were now sitting in a circle meditating out in the forest surrounded by redwood trees. Although the trees’ deep shades kept us quite cool, the weather was unusually warm. It was a slow, graceful meditation that I liked, while I enjoyed my heels touching the earth and feeling as if I were of the earth, of vegetation somehow.
What was the only revolution that could possibly succeed to bring our calm state to the rest of the earth? The conclusion we each had arrived in our own personal and special ways was the same. Yet, the inhabitants of this planet were not ready for it, and that, we accepted with our hearts breaking.
Yes, even such love, the transcendental kind, needed some work, some readiness, some wishful thinking. And the denizens of our planet just needed time.
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