Creative Writing by Judith Evans
He traces with light,
Sets the scene right.
Aperture set,
Assignment met.
With one shutter click,
He cuts to the quick.
Frozen in time,
A moment so fine,
A girl and her pup
Didn’t have to look up.
No need to pose,
That’s how it goes
Lens poet so fine,
Memories of mine
Draw a tear.
Hold us near.
Kitchen counters dusted in white flour
Witness countless afternoons like this.
Fingers dipped in oil pass the hour
Forming dough as daughters reminisce.
I’ve witnessed countless afternoons like this,
Kitchen windows hot with with noonday sun.
Dry skillet, water droplets hiss,
Hinting that our work has just begun.
Kitchen windows, hot with noonday sun
Reflect rows of spices rarely used.
Hinting that our work is never done,
Herbs flavor best after they’ve been bruised.
Amid the rows of spices rarely used,
Unwritten verses loose their ageless power.
Herbs flavor best after they’ve been bruised
On kitchen counters dusted in white flour.
Evening’s hush permeates the house.
April’s premature thunderstorm has settled down.
I’m the last one awake; even the dog has worn himself out.
Scribbled notes, stacked on my husband’s desk, look forward to becoming free verse, villanelles or sonnets.
A solitary robin sings as if thinking out loud, reviewing the day, exhaling as her little ones sleep.
I sit in my recliner, iPad in lap, ready to write.
A Google search turns up poetry prompts.
I type random words until a poem clears its throat and taps me on the shoulder.
“This way,” it whispers.
I follow meandering paths of meter, line breaks and alliteration.
We delight in clever phrases and poignant memories, that poem and I.
Where did it come from?
If only I knew!
The solitary robin falls silent, asleep until dawn.
Our refrigerator crackles and pops its way through automatic defrost.
The last glimmer of sunlight slips between the living room shutters.
I put the poem to bed, wondering why anyone would want to read a poem
About a poet writing a poem.
I sit on our Idaho patio listening to the summer breeze,
Listening to the black walnut leaves rustle softly.
Middle age transforms into sixth grade vacation,
When New Hampshire summers stretched beyond the horizon.
Listening to the black walnut leaves rustle softly
Reminds me of cool breezes through Nana’s porch.
New Hampshire summers, stretching beyond the horizon,
Made everything good possible.
Cool breezes through Nana’s porch
Lulled me into daydreams,
Making everything good possible
As we planned an afternoon at Hampton Beach.
Lulled into daydreams,
I picture my footprints disappearing in wet sand
And remember afternoons at Hampton Beach
As I sit on our Idaho patio listening to the summer breeze.
As I Write and Breathe 