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Showing posts from March, 2019

Poetry

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Poetry has held its own For hundreds of years in the past.  Just because of trying times  It’s sure to make it the best.  The beauty and complexity  Of the simplicity of its words.  Will never diminish  From this death filled world. By Evelyn Creon 

It's the Simple Things

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The simple little things Are what we most remember. It's a father that spends time With his children. A sweet note that's written And to a person given. It's a stranger saying,  "Your amazing!" A hug that shows someone cares. It's the laughter after a joke That wasn't really funny. A childs voice that says They love you. It's a memory  of a person Being kind. It's the simple and little things That give us long lasting joy, And are most remembered. By Evelyn Creon

False Projection

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The reflection in the water Is a false projection Of a realistic display. The water image a tad fuzzy In contrast to the original. Both are alluring In their own unique way. They make an awesome picture At the end of the day. By Evelyn Creon 

Beneath the Cobblestone Streets

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I had a blast writing about a real place with a fictional twist.  Beneath the city of New Orleans, At the mouth of the Mississippi, Lies a connection of tunnels Beneath its cobblestone streets. They are rough and rocky, Dark, damp, and scary. They run for many miles and are full of possibilities. They can lead you to the bayou, To the river, or the street. Even to the graveyards, Where the dead sleep. At night they're used by thieves, And tourists by day. The underpass, is a chilling place to stay. Snakes and rats like to play In that dirty, damp place. It's a tourist attraction, A destination for the weak. It's full of many secrets That have never seen the sun. So they will lie covered In the deepest pits of mud. Tales of hidden treasure, Concealed by robbers Who never made it out alive. Are stories for the fools. A passage way for slaves Who fled from their masters. The tunnels were a path Of liberty and freedom. Murders old as tim