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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!
Daily Cascade
Since my old blog "Everyday Canvas Open in new Window. became overfilled, here's a new one. This new blog item will continue answering prompts, the same as the old one.


Cool water cascading to low ground
To spread good will and hope all around.


image for blog


October 19, 2024 at 11:57am
October 19, 2024 at 11:57am
#1078581
Prompt:
On this day in 1962 Monster Mash by Bobby Boris Pickett. I've included the song to inspire your monster entry today. Write either a story or a poem about monsters, any kind you want after seeing Pickett's facial expressions you should have lots of inspiration.


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My Monsters

Suddenly, when hours creep
I'm too scared and cannot weep
for his face twists in ways unknown
and his voice takes on a husky tone

I look in the mirror to see, no, it isn't him
with smiles cracked, carved with grim
but also me who grins from ear to ear
with lips curled, to hide my fear

Also, is a face with chin pulled tight
the nose a swirl of crooked fright
he puffs his cheeks, eyebrows too thin
some face he has, stretched like sin

My monsters growl, sigh, and snare
I try to look away, in despair
yet, they are not evil, but odd and free
my monsters are a part of me

When I look away, they disappear
but within my shadow, they're so near
like grief, lost hopes, bent and skewed
they keep after me, to me they are glued.





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