computer screen blinks
I stare as ghosts stare back
writer’s block © Judith C Evans
For Thursday Think Tank #72 -- writer's block
Haiku Heights #92 -- ghosts
Join us!
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Ghosts
© Judith C Evans
For Thursday Think Tank #72 -- writer's block
Haiku Heights #92 -- ghosts
Join us!
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Drought
grass snaps underfoot
as a breathless Texas night
sighs and waits for rain
as a breathless Texas night
sighs and waits for rain
© Judith C Evans 2011
For Haiku Heights prompt #58 --Breathe
Friday, August 5, 2011
First Visit to Farmer's Market
I finally find time
To visit my small city's
Community Farmer's Market.
Every Sunday, from June through October,
At 8 AM in the parking lot
Across from the Amtrak station,
The stalls open.
The Northern Arizona mountain air opens my eyes.
I admire glistening bunches of Swiss chard and Lacinato kale,
And overflowing baskets of purplish heirloom tomatoes
And grass-green sugar snap peas.
The jostled pea pods squeak as I fill a plastic bag.
Clear glass jelly jars of water, filled with aromatic stalks of
Cilantro, basil, oregano and spearmint,
Catch the sunlight and sprinkle prismatic colors
Over stacked jars of homemade black currant jam.
At one crowded stall, a teenaged girl in a straw hat
Slices a fresh, raw turnip.
"Try some turnip," she insists, offering a snow white slice
On the end of a toothpick.
I shrug. Turnip is turnip.
The crisp, wet slice snaps in two in my mouth,
Releasing gleeful layers of living flavor.
So that's what turnip tastes like.
Written for Thursday Think Tank #60 at Poets United. This week's prompt is Market Days. Join us!
To visit my small city's
Community Farmer's Market.
Every Sunday, from June through October,
At 8 AM in the parking lot
Across from the Amtrak station,
The stalls open.
The Northern Arizona mountain air opens my eyes.
I admire glistening bunches of Swiss chard and Lacinato kale,
And overflowing baskets of purplish heirloom tomatoes
And grass-green sugar snap peas.
The jostled pea pods squeak as I fill a plastic bag.
Clear glass jelly jars of water, filled with aromatic stalks of
Cilantro, basil, oregano and spearmint,
Catch the sunlight and sprinkle prismatic colors
Over stacked jars of homemade black currant jam.
At one crowded stall, a teenaged girl in a straw hat
Slices a fresh, raw turnip.
"Try some turnip," she insists, offering a snow white slice
On the end of a toothpick.
I shrug. Turnip is turnip.
The crisp, wet slice snaps in two in my mouth,
Releasing gleeful layers of living flavor.
So that's what turnip tastes like.
© Judith C Evans 2011
Written for Thursday Think Tank #60 at Poets United. This week's prompt is Market Days. Join us!
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Biographer's Meditation
In school we studied names and dates
Of you who came before
But stories whispered in my dreams
Tell me there's so much more.
I thirst for more to memorize,
More links to eras past.
From pages of debates and wars
I hear your voice at last.
I must write your story;
I must try at least.
Now sparks from your soul
To my heart increase.
With unfrozen breath
From you whom we call "dead"
I transcribe with devotion
Things you might have said.
Of you who came before
But stories whispered in my dreams
Tell me there's so much more.
I thirst for more to memorize,
More links to eras past.
From pages of debates and wars
I hear your voice at last.
I must write your story;
I must try at least.
Now sparks from your soul
To my heart increase.
With unfrozen breath
From you whom we call "dead"
I transcribe with devotion
Things you might have said.
© Judith C Evans 2009
Submitted to Poetry Pantry #60 at Poets United.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
July 30
Our black, brown and white cat stretches out under the ceiling fan, dreaming with one eye open.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)