Creations Magazine Poetry & Art

Oh, So Perfect
by Jordan Crosby, H.S. Student, Florida

Comes and goes so fast
You might even miss it
Oh, So Perfect.

Bare feet against the sand
Long walks, holding hands
Oh, So Perfect.

Sun beaming, drinks melting
Laughter spreading, always smiling
Oh, So Perfect.

Relaxed with no worries
Just us making memories
Oh, So Perfect.

Breeze against our faces
It happens so very quickly but
Oh, So Perfect.

This just seems way too sublime
Awesome memories will never fade
That summer love was oh, so perfect.

Haiku
by Gerald Starlight, Roosevelt, NY

Summer dawn rising
Long days of sunlight linger
Dusk with evening stars

Robin’s Egg
by Joanna M. Weston

shining, vivid blue
in the grass –

a robin lost to summer’s sky
to summer’s sky

its mystery
a song unheard
a flight unseen

this fragile
silence

Haiku
by Mankh (Walter E. Harris III), Selden, NY

strong scent, gas station—
first memories of travel
with Dad

Younger Brother
by Roberta A. McQueen, Amityville, NY

Can’t call him a kid anymore
even if he acts like one
he refuses to settle down
life is one big adventure
he goes hiking and skydiving
nothing ties him down

late to every event
showing up unannounced
his girlfriend insists
his mom didn’t
spoil him really
but his sisters did

Looking so cute
and so cuddly
when he was small
how could you not
give him everything
his little heart desired

I Am Your Child
by Rhonda Weiss, New York, NY

I am your child
I see through your eyes
I hear through your ears
Your world vision is mine
So be kind
And hopeful
And positive
And loving
For I am your child

And for now
My eyes and ears are yours
But one day soon
They’ll be mine
And the vision of the world you give to me
Will color my life
For always

Dad,
by Gloria g. Murray, Deer Park, NY

I used to wonder why my uncles were so
tender-hearted, with a hug, a laugh, a joke
unlike you, a long, jagged icicle
ready to pierce through
my unprotected flesh
with artic blue eyes not even
a child’s smile could melt
I used to cringe when I’d hear
the sound of you opening the door
each night to sit at the dinner table
in that frigid silence that drove
my mother mad
I used to wonder if the silence
was your voice, and if I pressed my ear
close to your curly-haired chest
I’d hear a heartbeat or just an echo
from that hollow cave
in your breast

 

Paintings by Jahn Guarino
www.jahnsart.com
(631) 368-4800

Please contact Creations Magazine if you wish to have your art considered for this page:
Andrea@creationsmagazine.com