Creations Magazine Poetry & Art


Sea of Change
by Mario Starace, Bayside, NY

Watching the water as my life flows by,
feeling the turbulent times of trouble churn up
emotional ballast and rearrange perspectives.

What was once peripheral now appears primary
as I struggle to keep my mental balance
through the see-sawing motions
of destiny’s inexorable torrent.

Through the seeming typhoon of change,
the still center of the storm remains
placid and peaceful as always.

Serenity seems a dream of once was,
but illusions of the past only present a false
mirage, like a heat shimmer on the horizon.

Only in facing what is now upon me in the moment
can I navigate this sea of change successfully,
remembering to let the inner guide,always with me,
set the course.

Autumn Equinox
by Gail Wilson, Hollis, NY

How poignant the autumnal rose,
Summer’s last gasp of beauty,
Set before the inevitable frost.
This season of fall equinox,
With the earth hovering on the brink,
Preparing to plunge into the lengthening darkness.
When flowers still bloom ernestly,
Their fragrance lingering in the dry,
dusty scent of daytime,
Then fading into the moist chill evening air.
Season of balance between life and surrender,
Time of harvest: grain, nuts, and fruit,
The reaping of abundance before emptiness.
Quiet pause in a moment of balance,
When light and dark are equal partners,
Facing the inexorable, slow slide into
the long night,
Season of a soul’s reflection upon
the final darkness.

Painting by Ellen Hallie Schiff
ehschiff @ yahoo.com
631-368-4800

 

Does She Know He Watches Over Her As She Sleeps?
by Ruth Sabath Rosenthal, New York, NY

He watched over her as she slept;
furrowed brows above moist, dark eyes
— their faces melded into one victim.

Pity and discomfort oozed from friends
and relatives. A time came when such sentiment
turned into indifference — then quarantine.

My father grew bitter with anger. I know,
he told me so, weeping — something he did
day upon day. The burden of caring

for my mother more than he could shoulder,
he hired help, but wouldn’t let anyone touch her.
Only he could touch her. Only he could

bathe her, change her diapers, feed her,
clean spittle and tears off her face.
Her caretaking became his life’s work.

I cooked his favorite dishes, he ate them
like he did other food — with no sign of enjoyment.
I tried cheering him up with his grandchildren
yet nothing I did could take his mind to a place where
Alzheimer’s didn’t exist.

I watched him fight for every breath they took,
my mother’s heart ultimately stronger than his.
Did she realize anything changed, that her soul mate
ceased being there for her? Locked in her Alzheimer cell, she stared into space, her response to any question or touch— nothing.

Haiku
by Cynthia Marie, Queens, NY

a glint of pale light
the woman in the water
floats into her past

Chicken Soup
by Karen Ethelsdattar, Union City, NJ

I had heard the almost certain verdict:
malignant tumor. Shell shock.
Had gone to the grocery store for bland food
for 3 days after the colonoscopy.
In the meantime 24 hours on a liquid diet;
fruit juice, jello, sherbet, clear broth.
Sick of sweet drinks, I opened a can
of chicken soup, eager for its saltiness.
Heated it up & poured it into a beautiful large bowl.
Not large enough, it was filled to the brim.
Grasping it, I attempted to move to the dining room table.
The bowl was too hot, scorching. My hands shook.
I dropped it.
Chicken soup spilled all over the kitchen floor.
Great wrenching sobs shook me, took me over,
shocked me, emptied my soul
As I set down the emptied bowl,
I gave way to them with relief.
Chicken soup had done it again. Healed me.

On the Death Of a Cellist (for Rostrapovich)
by June L. Owen, Long Island, NY

Where do all the notes go
Now that you are gone
Do they rise up to the heavens
With a sweet, ethereal song

Are they singing to the angels
With a warm and earthen voice
Does the sky weep for your passing
Or in having you, rejoice

Do they dance across the ocean
With its vast expanse of blue
Then crystallize as droplets
Of the finest silver hue

Do they vanish from existence
As your bow lies ever still
And the strings no longer vibrate
‘Neath your passioned artist’s will

If so, then why in darkness
As my mind slips into sleep
Do I hear the faintest echo
Of a sound so dark and deep