A Country Girl's Writing

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...

I peered beneath the surface A view caught my gaze, One of distant beauty That none could ever gage. It was powerful and priceless, Full of deadly and living things; Of animals and bees. The creatures all seemed calm And in perfect harmony. Maybe never seen before By a human like me. Though I knew I shouldn't I couldn't help myself, So I touched the surface with my finger. I had no fear and little doubt. With an unbearable pain I drew it back As I watched the ripple I created poison everything. The surface that I'd touched The beauty that I'd seen Slowly seemed to fade And shrivel up and die. My finger it got worse And my tears didn't help. My body began to shake uncontrollably. I tried to grasp for something But in vain there was nothing. I fell to my knees in dreadful agony And passed out from the pain. When I awoke I could barely stand. The sight I saw gave me no doubt That I was the human Who had snuffed life out. Out of a wor...

This poem was inspired by the myth of the Grim Reaper. He is know for collecting the souls from people when their time is up.   I saw a figure  Descending down Upon a feeble body; Reaping 'way life  With it's own breathing.  That foul figure  Paralyzed me, Into a macabre fear That stiffened me, While it disappeared.  The feeble being That I had seen  No longer was it breathing  The figure, a brute, Took life an' now me.  By Evelyn Creon

In the deadest parts of night,  When all should be a sleep, Fear; it wanders left and right; As a faun from the deep.  He's filled with evil magic; Which call to all that sleep:  "The children in the attic  No longer do they creep." The children who never sleep, Toss and turn as they plea While he pulls them in, knee deep,  To the dark depths beneath.  A nightmare to all who hear The call of his own life:  "Sleepless children disappear, Live forever in strife."  By Evelyn Creon This poem was inspired by a dream I had.