Come visit my creative writing:

About my writing:

The first time I dabbled with excitement in creative writing was in the eighth grade when our English teacher gave us the freedom to write anything we chose. My imagination soared! I worked so hard on that assignment, a mystery, and proudly passed it in to her. I waited with growing anticipation for the day she handed back our papers and, then, I could hardly stand that she had left mine until the end. Perhaps she was saving the highest mark ‘til last? Finally, with that one lonely paper fluttering about in her hand, she looked sternly over the spectacles perched on the end of her nose and pronounced something to the effect, “I marked yours much lower than usual. I can’t believe you wrote this by yourself.” My hopes were dashed. I swallowed my words along with the lump in my throat and accepted the paper with embarrassment in front of the class. I went back to my seat.

I never tried so hard in school after that but I never lost my desire to play with words. Today, they dance to my melodies and stand alone as poems. My writing exists for my own pleasure and, as a consequence, I hope, for that of others. I have written poems, children’s stories as well as several short stories and have won publication through contests. The only time I tried to write a play, I entered the first rough draft in a competition and won its performance in a theatre. What a wonderful experience to witness my words on paper actually come to life! The second draft of that play still waits in the wings…I must get at that…someday.

In the early 1980’s, I won a prize from the Nova Scotia Writer’s Federation for writing an extended children’s  story in verse about Captain Kidd’s treasure on Oak Island, a local folklore tale. It still awaits revision and an attempt at publication. Someday…

Two of my poems, “A Mother’s Ledger” and “Dunes”, won publication in two separate anthologies, the names of which escape me now. Both are buried somewhere in the dust of my attic.

In the 1990’s, I sent a poem to a publisher who was soliciting material about women’s issues. Weeks later, when the envelope containing the verdict arrived, I couldn’t bear to open it for many days. It hung in postponement like a judge’s sentence. Then, one night, about two weeks later, as I was having trouble sleeping, I went downstairs to the kitchen for some warm milk. I stared apprehensively at the envelope and somehow, blearily, in those wee small hours, I mustered the courage to open it. My poem had not only been published but had been illustrated as well! And there was not a soul awake to tell!

My office, indeed, my entire life is and has been cluttered with scraps of paper capturing fleeting ideas as well as many not quite completed attempts. Sometimes when I run across some scribbled words while looking for something else, I’ll read them with absolutely no memory of ever having written them! Ah, the muse is so fickle! Once having visited, she hardly ever returns in the same way.  

I keep hoping that someday I’ll stop dabbling and get my act together, write more and try to get some projects published. I guess it’ll be after I figure out what’s holding me back. Could it still be what happened in grade school?  Surely not after all these years?  Anyway, perhaps that’s another mystery.

So, please, dear reader, if you have travelled with me this far and stayed this long, make another cup of cybertea and feel free to wander through the creative writing. I trust if you wish to print anything, you will be kind enough to note credit and copyright. Thank you for your respect and for making our world a better place with your consideration of/on that issue.

I sincerely hope you have enjoyed stopping by. Please invite your friends to visit here as well.  Thank you for your time and interest.

“Midnight Blue”

Trapped beneath an avalanche of snowtears

Fighting breath that lungs no longer will to breathe

Melting space around the face of his rejection

Keeping warm that which yearns for flakes to freeze

Immobilized between the last year and tomorrow

Between the truly dying and the newly dead

Stoic lost inside a frozen memory

Of the stinging icy words he coldly said

His day with someone else is somewhere dawning

As lifeblood slows to beat a silent drum

Passing through a heart that begs it stop now

To muscles that refuse to save it from

Judith L. Cleveland
c. 2010

“Dune Grass”

Earth a pillow

Resting mind

Sea grass bed

Up-stretched hands

In tandem sway

Sweet blades surrounding

Safe secreted self

World unaware

Woman wakens wonder

Waving grasses

Weaving fingers

Woven proud



By being

Touch the cloud

Judith Cleveland

“The Sands of November”

Scudding clouds race the brush of October to paint grey on November’s sky

An iceberg sails the horizon while the wind still flirts with July

A seagull’s transfixed on the breakers; he’s waiting for oil to come

We’ll likely not disappoint him…to him, we’re repeatedly dumb

He’s witnessed it over and over and still that lesson’s unlearned

There’s an iceberg on the horizon and greed remains unconcerned

There’s a red tide defiling the Danube and a waltz the fish will not dance

As notes mark time in their blood flow and music seduces the chance

Wild storms rage and batter the shorelines as floods float our families away

The monster’s too big to be stopped now…now the sky is changing to grey

As they gather in ominous darkness to block what used to be blue

An iceberg breaks the horizon and the seagull is staring at you.

An iceberg mars the horizon surrounded by grey sea and sky

As we imprint the sands of November with minds still pretending July

Judith Cleveland
c. 2010


2 double beds

2 chairs and couches

2 sets of kitchen dishes

2 cabinets, drawers

2 ironing boards

2 aquaria with fishes

2 toasters


freezer chests

2 little room

2 fit the rest

2 long we’ve been alone

2 fuss


They’re 2 of us!

Judith L. Cleveland
c. 1988


In time I share with you

Peace encircles me

A gentle velvet envelope

Wherein my soul succumbs

To rest and sustenance


Two children were

Perched upon the tips of see-saws

The one too high

The other brings her down

And then propels her back again

And so they play

Each upon the other on the balance



Upon which we level life

Laughter thrilling childhood years

Middle years of toil and tears

Of lovers here and lost and children gone

And then to read between the lines

Upon the face our certainty of place

We leave without a trace


In the final coming down

When all is hushed and playgrounds closed

If you remain above

This soul that you have nourished thus

Shall linger by the gate

To softly wait

Until it’s time to there

Envelope you and safely walk you home

Judith L. Cleveland
c. 1990