A Country Girl's Writing

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 

To have your heart broken By someone you love They have to drop it From a high place above. Let it fall without a care As they watch it fly through the air, and shatter like glass Beneath them. Then they have to leave it, For you to recover. while it take you years To piece it again together. By Evelyn Creon

Passion was what pushed her Too fulfill her dreams. The love of the thing she did Made her success and fame. She really didn't want All the popularity. What she really wanted Was to brighten someone's day. By Evelyn Creon

Inspired by a summer evening.  Shh! Listen to the music Directed by the crickets.  They're singing symphonies  In the evening light, If you care to listen.   By Evelyn Creon

 I 'm do excited for this short story. I've been wanting to share it with all of you for the past two weeks, but it wasn't ready two weeks ago.   It was inspired by all the familys that deal with alcohol addiction in their homes.  Whiskey Drinker   a short story by Evelyn Creon Like a ship sinking into a stormy sea, an empty bottle fell from his hands hitting the concrete floor with a crash ,  and shattering into a thousand pieces. He sat there half lying, half sitting in  is chair. The chair was using all its strength trying not to buckle beneath my father's weight. He was drunk. The smell of whiskey was strong on his breath. I sighed, a deep long one, trying to hold back tears of aching pain that filled me at the sight of him. Again I had found him lost in drowning everything with a drink. Guilt filled me. I felt like I should have used softer words when I scolded him like a child. It was in times like  those , when my...

Yesterday I had the opportunity to drive through Glenwood Canyon with my family. It was beautifu. the beauty of the canyon inspired me, and so I wrote a poem about my experience there.  The canyon walls towered high above  us. Beautiful rock formations lined it's walls. The Colorado river's murky water lies below, Seventy was the speed limit  A freeway both ways.  Twelve miles mostly of bridge we drove on, Four tunnels passed we through.  Orange cones lined the center line, Preventing you from driving in the left lane.   Electrical construction made one way traffic, For both ways.   A train track was built  on the south side of the river.   if it is still in use,  I wouldn't know.  Rest stops were placed about every three miles, Throughout the cannon.  They were small, clean, and green;  with ramps to the river.  Rafters floated down the river t...

Inspired by a road trip to the Rocky mountains. One of the many scenes of an exciting road trip.  Fields of gold  Fly past my Windows.  Fence posts of the thousands, Line the sides of the roads.  Farm house scattered Throughout the fields of gold. No sight of a town  For hundreds of miles.  Trees a rare thing to see  In the sea of gold.  Tumbleweeds, flying through the air  landing here and there.  Fields of gold meet the sky  As far as one can see.  Bright blue and fluffy white  Colors the sky. Over head the sun beats down Upon the earth with waves of heat.  By Evelyn Creon

Today's post was inspired by so the things we forget about. This poem only skims the top of what a lot of us forget.  Forgotten words that hurt so deep, that they left distinguished damage.  Forgotten memories that once  So memorable and were vocally repeated.  Forgotten clothes that were loved  And worn day in and out.  Forgotten books that lay  Deserted upon their shelves.  Forgotten gardens once beautiful,  Now over grown with weeds.  Forgotten homes that  Are collapsing on themselves . Forgotten family members  That don't want to be remembered.  Forgotten lovers,  That we have no reason to remember. Forgotten birthdays , That we are expected to remember.  Forgotten writing that lays somewhere  Unfinished, and catching dust.   forgotten dishes from the day before, That no one had time to wash.  Forgotten expectations...

One of the things I have always feared is the idea of losing my parents. This was a dream that I would have over and over again when I was younger.  My heart fell from his hands hitting the ground shattering into a thousand pieces. "Nnnoooo," I cried, "You dropped it! How could you do such a thing?" Tears streamed down my cheeks. I couldn't hold them back as much as I wanted to.  A grin crossed his lips as he looked at me and said hardheartedly, "Your the one that gave it to me, and so you have me the permission to do what I wanted with it. I don't care about your heart so I broke it. " The tears streamed faster down my cheeks than they had ever come before. "Does my heart mean nothing to you?"  " NO, nope, never have and never will. "  I looked up at him in disgust. His grin made me sick inside. I had trusted him with every part of me, and most importantly the memory of my parents. I couldn't look at hi...

 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...

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