Showing posts from May, 2018


For all the chocolate lovers. Th e title of this poem just about sums it all up.   Chocolate The beauty of  Dark, creamy, Melt in the mouth  Deliciousness.  Chocolate  Perfect for when  Writing, reading, Or watchin' a movie, It's always there. Chocolate  The sweet  That begs you To enjoy it's  Rich devine flavor. Chocolate  My sweet  Addiction  That stays with  Me always.  By Evelyn Creon

A picture of height

When we fear something we like to explore the fear. This poem was inspired by my fear of heights. This poem started out with the first two verses, but when I chose the picture for the post I added two more verses.  Up went I to the highest floor Of some random building  That once was adored.  I there stopped  To catch my breath When I fell out a window  To a brutal death.  I was there for a picture  An' nothing more, When the glass broke  I was lost forever more.  Down I feel like a rock  Landing hard below  On a cement sidewalk.  By Evelyn Creon

Dancing' in the kitchen

 Inspired by the endless dance parties my siblings, cousins, and I have in the kitchen when the parents are away.  Dancin' in the kitchen On a cold stary night, Not a care in the world, Cause we're doin' alright. we have dinner and drinks To last the whole night long; With the music playin' A good ol' fashion song. We got Apple pastries, We got gizzards galore! We've got huckleberries, steak an' some roasted corn. There's greens from the garden, Last year's squash from the field. Will fill our abdomens Before the next mornin' meal. Dancin' in the kitchen, Throughout this stary night Papa'll play the banjo Just a little up tight. Granny'll be out jigger That no one ever ever beats, A duet I will sing Like a champ on the streets. Mama will be dancin' With a slip and a dip, Aunt Diane will do dishes With an ol' swing of hips. Uncle Tony will sing Next to papa and me, While the little youngin

Where a writer's art is born

Inspired by the dreams that create artistic dexterity. All art is an interpretation of what the artist sees and feels in life. Out of my bed and down the hall flew I. Then down the stair case rail I did slide.  The front door opened just like magic.  Into a world of  romanticism, majestic. Where life and death are one in the same,  and good and bad are not a big fame. Where dreams meet reality,  And mortals are more than humanity. Where romance seems to take a role, And good or bad takes a toll. Where animals talk, And danger jaywalks.  Where life can pass and time often stops.   The world of a writer created by endless imagination That flows from a pen out on paper for preservation. Endless possibilities that flow through their minds  Even after they unwind.  By Evelyn Creon

launching of a new blog

Today I just wanted to share with you something I got from two of my writing brothers, Jason and Peter. They are the authors of the blog  miznos  an  awesome  writing blog. they'er  writing is in-powering and has inspired me many times. They are  launching a new blog called Awkward Truth that I’m super excited about! And they need your help. Here’s what Jason said: ‘My friend, Peter Rogati, and I are starting a blog focused on discovering God’s absolute truth in His relational and natural creation, even and especially when it’s awkward. But before I launch I need your help. I’ve created a two-question survey. Your answers will shape the direction of this new project. Will you take a few minutes to: 1.Complete the survey yourself  2.Forward this email to anyone you think might be interested Here’s the link to the survey: Thank you so much for your support! In Christ,  Jason’” THANKS AGAIN!!!

Grandpa's guitar

Inspired by the idea that somewhere in the world there is somebody that plays their grandpa's old guitar.  I sat there on my bed Pluckin ' away at his guitar.  The only thing I had left From the memory of grandpa. It's a littl' old, beat up, But still it makes pretty chords that the family loves.  He used to teach me Thursday night's How to play it swell. When he died of cancer  I didn't take the death too well. Now I lose myself in memories  Of Thursday night lessons That grandpa gave to me.  By Evelyn Creon