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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


November 9, 2024 at 11:13am
November 9, 2024 at 11:13am
#1079719
Prompt:

Make a list of common objects that you might like to write about because of their appearance or personal association. Write comparisons to these objects anything--everything you can think of about the objects. Now take all this information you've gathered and write a story or a poem about what you've discovered with your list. Have fun.

Another Mathew Sweeney and John Hartley Williams exercise in case you're wondering.


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List:
photo in a frame,
eyeglasses
Himalayan salt lamp
bowl of candy
dictionary
calendar

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While You Watch

Watching me, your photo in a frame sits still on my desk as if a nest for memories entombed but not cast aside, and beside it, my eyeglasses
rest folded, with their lenses catching light on the side, quietly

like the Himalayan salt lamp, glowing soft and warm, casting hues in a gentle form. A bowl of candy nearby the frame with your photo waits, sweet like you,
as a small treat for when tears come.

At the edge, my dictionary leans to words bound for reference or wisdom profound, and as I turn each page, the calendar on the wall, marks my time's pace; its comfort, a slow, quiet grace

letting me know how we'll meet again soon, or maybe in many-a-moon, while
you watch me in this room of little things, still and blue, but
bathed in your warm hue, my world embraces its silence.




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