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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.
August 22, 2021 at 12:41pm August 22, 2021 at 12:41pm
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For "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise" 
Prompt by Lyn: My 65th birthday approaches and people have commented that I've finally reached a monumental birthday. Everyday, I'm alive is monumental.
But since the conversation, I've thought about different birthdays over the years so I'm going to ask you which birth year sticks out the most in your memories? Why? Was it because of a place or the people you were with?
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I am not sure my own birthday is so important; at least, it isn’t to me. But I value and appreciate each year we are given the gift of life. So, talking about years instead of birthdays…
One year that sticks out in my memory is the most splendid and full of love, and the most annoying and the most active and the most troublesome year of 1966. In that year, I married my husband who would be with me for 54 wonderful years, lived with my in-laws for several months, prepared and finished a thesis, thought high school for six months on the side, got pregnant and lost the baby and moved away from family, established in a different place and by the end of that year, I felt knocked down breathless totally, but still it was a good year. 
I’ve had other active years after that one, but in that one I was fish out of water, totally inexperienced in many areas. That is another reason which makes me appreciate 1966 for all the joys and the learning and the hardships and the people and challenges that I dealt with and came out AOK, (I think).
Thus, to that year and all the others, I thank you for your service!
For: "Space Blog"
Prompt by Megan: From SeanFhear   ’s "If The World is Made of Gold"
What if the world was made out of gold? Write about this…
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The poem itself was so beautiful that saying anything else about it would be for naught.
So, I’ll just say what I can come up with about the question. If the world was made out of gold, and I mean the metal gold, we wouldn’t be here, would we?
Even if we were, at its best, since everything else were to be metallic, we would be metallic, too, for we’d eat gold, hear gold, see gold, and look shiny and yellow. And when the sun’s rays would heat up the place, we’d all soften and run into one another and everything else.
Yet, if I take the question through its abstract meaning, not only our particular life circumstances but also the time period in which we live would be reflected in our being and work. From that point of view, we would either exist or reflect like any metal, say aluminum, zinc, iron, platinum, copper, or gold.
One thing common among us would be that we would be able to conduct electricity. (Define electricity through your own understanding here.) Still, even now, without exactly being a metal, we do conduct electricity, don’t we!
I think, not what kind of a metal we could be but to which degree we let electricity pass through us to others and our environment would be the most important thing, then, and it still is. 
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August 20, 2021 at 11:03am August 20, 2021 at 11:03am
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For "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise"
Prompt: “Who are you to judge the life I live? I know I'm not perfect -and I don't live to be but before you start pointing fingers...make sure you hands are clean!” ― Bob Marley
Do you think Bob is right, people shouldn't be pointing fingers? Do you think people are more judgmental now than 25 years ago or about the same?
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Although I don't have access to any reliable statistics on the people's judgmental behavior over the years, Marley does have a point.. Yet, what he says is a blanket statement and doesn’t cover all situations. Then, he is also doing exactly the thing he puts down. He’s pointing fingers at judgmental people.
Yes, I have to be judgmental (to a degree) so I don’t make friends with a serial killer or a seasoned burglar who could use my or my friends’ identities and harm us in a few other ways.
Yet, should I be judgmental about every single person I meet? Definitely not. In fact, good will, understanding, and benefit of doubt are my go-to stance and action with everyone, be it she or he is a homeless person or filthy rich or has a purple skin color or if she laughs at sad things.
On Marley’s side, though, lies the fact that we shouldn’t point fingers at first sight or opinion. We all have brains that hopefully work to our advantage, and understanding and accepting differences among all peoples should be our common goal, so we don’t hurt anyone or get hurt ourselves by our own thoughts and actions.
For: "Space Blog"
Prompt: drifter  writes about tennis in "Tennis Anyone" . Can someone explain tennis please?
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Hahaha! Tennis is unexplainable. Only because it has so much to do with the condition (more mental than physical) that a player is in at the time of her/his match. Then, his stamina and mental health, which could be strong in an ephemeral fashion, can get in his way with positive or negative effects. Then, that stance can change from set to set and even from play to play.
As for me, tennis is nother personal weird thing. I learned to play tennis in high school. I guess, then, I was ranking between average and above average. Years later, during my thirties, a friend of mine took an interest in tennis and asked me to practice with her. Sure enough, we both got into it and entered in a group (I think they called them leagues, Lol!) in a local tennis establishment, called Tennis Time in Kingspark, NY. (I now googled it and found out that it is still there with a name change to SPORTIME Kings Park and with additions of other sports to it.
Coming back to what I was saying, the weird thing was, I was more than pretty good in doubles plays, but I totally sucked in singles. Go figure! So, don’t ask me about tennis. I’ll never figure it out and I have given away all my equipment years ago. It is past history for me. Way-past history!
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August 14, 2021 at 10:26am August 14, 2021 at 10:26am
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For "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise"
Prompt: How do you feel about the rising increase of people recognized as gender fluid. (gender fluid-denoting or relating to a person who does not identify themselves as having a fixed gender.) Do you think this is a passing trend or the wave of our future?
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I don’t know, and I can’t really tell the future. How would we have known all this, say when we were living in the early sixties or even fifties?
My general stance in life is “live and let live” and “to each his/her/its own.” What I oppose to is the attempt by some radical parents aiming at a physical change in very young children just because they express a desire to belong to a different gender.
Little kids say anything. It doesn’t mean they have made a conscious decision. Heck, one of my kids, when four years of age, used to say, “I’m going to marry my mom. No one’s better.” What should I do? Plan a wedding?
We all need to have a serious head on our shoulders before we act on any false impression. Easy to say, right?
For: "Space Blog"
Prompt: From Innerlight Author  ’s "5-8-09 2021"
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Although this poem’s content seemingly depends on a romantic music box and rings, in essence it is really a sad one, as if a eulogy to someone departed or maybe to something that could but did not happen.
Rather than blabbing on this beautiful poem any longer, I’d like to say something in general on works like this. Given their profound emotional impact, it may make a person wonder why we like to read and write such works especially during our lowest points.
From one point of view, it may be that such works actually put us in a better mood after writing or reading them because we feel validated, as if such works validate our pain. Then, once we feel validated, we can put our problems into perspective and use them as prompts of empathy for others in real life.
When my husband and I, as a young couple, watched a very popular movie during early 1970’s--The Love Story (Erich Segal) with Ali Mac Graw and Ryan O’Neill as actors—we were incensed that they made such a sad movie and wondered why anyone would exploit the melancholy of such a tragedy and make people unhappy.
That was then, though, and we couldn’t relate to that sadness fully. But it is now, and my husband’s gone, and I can definitely relate to such a sadness. Now, I can see the point in such works. Now, they act as if soothing balms for those of us who can relate to them. Now, I know.
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August 12, 2021 at 10:39am August 12, 2021 at 10:39am
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For "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise"
Prompt: "To feel creative, I need plenty of white space, coffee and good light." Niki Franklin
What do you need to feel creative?
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Recently, words have left me, and forget about being creative. Forget about originality. Even straight sentences are hard to come by. I used to write in my blog at least a couple of paragraphs for each group, and it didn’t take me more than fifteen minutes, either.
Now, days and months pass by and nothing. I can’t even write for my own stinky prompts. I do keep a personal long-hand journal though, but that is private. With that one, my words fall on the page on their own.
When I used to write easily, I needed nothing. I didn’t even need an idea. A single word as a prompt would be enough for me to come up with something or other. Not always good but hopefully passable.
I still haven’t lost heart, either. Somehow, I’ll get over this grief of loss, too, even if I only attempt to write once in a blue moon.
For: "Space Blog"
Prompt by Megan: From Cappucine  ’s "Chez Jean- Luc"
Write about France in your Blog entry today.
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Synchronicity! I am reading two books concurrently and both have scenes taking place in France. And one of the characters’ name is Jean Luc, the jeune premier in the story to be exact.
I like France, especially the riverside in Paris as there’s always a story happening there, but then there are other places and countries in the world that mesmerize me more.
Yet, coming back to France, although I am not a drinker, I love their wine cellars, some spooky, others dusty, yet still others that show off bottles from decades or even a century ago, lying in their fairy-tale slumber, as some wine makers hid their good vintages from the German occupation during the Second World War. The French wine has a bewitching quality, more of it probably preserved for being legendary like the sleeping-beauty.
I remember those from decades ago, in Bourgogne (Burgundy) among a crisscross of canals, and specifically in Côte d'Or, and I especially still see in full color, in my mind’s eye, a wine maker who called himself a simple farmer, when he took us down to his cellar as a rare reward for my husband who had helped his daughter through a rough patch. He treated his bottles as if they were alive, like people, as the heavy bottles lay on their sides on the wine-racks with corks intact.
This still amazes me, the corks being intact thing, because, much earlier, I had tried to make wine myself in our Long-Island basement. Something nasty happened and the bottle rebelled against me, blowing its top and throwing its cork and spraying an entire wall and ceiling with purplish stuff during my so-called wine-making attempt.
I know now, this was because I didn’t let the wine breathe. But then, sometimes, it is difficult to let those we love breathe. Then, sometimes, I hold my own breath, too, especially when the going gets tough.
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