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Creations Poetry

I Heard God Laugh
by Olive Taft Mathison (aka Andrea’s Grammy)

‘Twas on a quiet day
my thoughts on truth intent
I did promise to obey myself
to Christianity
God Laughed
And with that laughter
He did say: Take care
Lest leaning close to Christianity
You stray too far away from Me.

by Ruth Sabath Rosenthal, New York City

How like your wife
My mother looked
Like your wife
My mother felt
Your love chill
To the bone
How like your wife
My mother felt
The back of your hand
Your wife not there
To take those whacks
How early in life
Your wife dead
Rheumatic fever
You said
Yet rumored
Your doing
My mother denying this
To her dying day
O that your wife
Would have lived to see
My mother married
To a decent man
A good father
That your wife
Would have been there
To coach my mother
In mothering me
So I could have known
How to better mother
My daughter

by Gloria M. Forte

Stripping away
Piled on clothing
Now nature is fully


The Open Book of Nature
by Magsood Jafri

Prowling beasts and predators on the wing
Alert the hunters and scatter the hunted.
No prophet is permitted to eat wild game
Lest he devours life to him devoted.

Lions are not without innate traits
Of braiding bravery and persevering patience.
And dogs, even with ferocious bark and bite,
Have loyalty often superior to human faithfulness.

Whether awesome hawk or tiny sparrow,
No creature is without inspiring quality.
The birds and beasts are the open book
Of nature, teaching us the mysteries of humanity.

Humans with the boons of faith and intellect
Surpass all creatures in the divine gift of wison.
War and strife reflect the bestial, bloody struggle;
Our utmost goal should be to seek God’s Kingdom.

The life of beasts is one of struggle and strife
Choose the path of peace, the call of sages
The wisdom of saints is the wisdom of hope
With it we can write our lives with golden pages.

Soul Speak
by Seena Russell Axel, Ph.D., Plainview

It didn’t come mystically in an “ahha” moment of intuitive knowing.
It didn’t come quickly like so many earlier lessons shrinking my full blossomed
birth into protective bud.

Like the building time for pyramids
decades of design, years of failure, eons for building, times of recreating, and more than one lifetime required.

It didn’t come with age, though seasoned I may be. Birthed in the moonlight of running from soul death at all costs,
echoes of this voice whispered in the longings of my younger heart.

It didn’t come easily like so many previous life challenges. Hard work, loyal dedication, solid assistance and clear intention
illuminate the deep, dark passageways between the conscious and the un…

You have to choose the inner adventure, invite the hidden pain, suffer the deepest truths…
and dare to revel in living them, to nourish the fertile womb of your own delivery.

It’s in the quietest of moments usually in nature (no longer eternal) that the soul emerges from behind its shy, protective veil,
peeking out, poking through, and daring to call you by name.
It is then that your name and the name of God are One.

The wisdom of eldership…Crone consciousness, I call her.
Sometimes soothing lubrication for the bud to more fully blossom this time ‘round.
Highly vulnerable, sensing danger, experiencing fear, feeling all.
Forward movement onward only possible now.

No wonder the wrinkles, the stretch marks, the lines, the rolls.
Badges of courage on the arduous journey of living soul life…
of fully blossoming into the timely Goddess of your own creation… on your own journey…
guided by the soul’s inner voice,…partnered by God.

In praise of dandelions
by Karen Ethelsdattar, Union City, NJ

They amble along the sidewalk
near me,
a boy
& a girl,
in the newness
of perhaps first love,
holding hands.
In her other hand
the girl holds, tenderly,
a small bouquet of dandelions.
They gaze down at the golden flowers
with sweet attention.
I watch,
every child
bringing a first bouquet
to her mother
knows dandelions are not weeds
but flowers,
& chefs know
dandelion greens
are good to eat,
yet how many people poison them,
dig them up
as though they were aliens, immigrants,
in the imagined perfection
of their pure green lawns.

Ode to the Vegetables
by Rose Grieco, (aka Neil’s Nanny, 1909- February 2007)

O Vegetables!
O Vegetables!
Please take a rest from growing.
I know you want to do your best for The one whose hand has sown you,
But pay no heed to him who comes a-searchin’ and a-lookin’.
Take some pity on the one
who has to do the cookin’.

Our World
by Athena Symphony, 8 Years Old, Beverly Hills

Our World is the Light in Our Eyes
Our World is filled with Laughter and Joy
It is the Spirit of our Earth
Our World gives us Health and Happiness
It is the Organic Spirit
Our World is the Best thing I have Ever Known

If She Was My Daughter
by Gail Wilson, Hollis

If she was my daughter,
With her slim, still straight lines,
Coltish legs that pump and run downhill.
Ridge of shoulder blades protruding like wings in her back,
As if she was about to take flight.

If she was my daughter,
I would not gnaw her young bones to
Feed my longings.
Pull her down with small daily denigrations.
I would not stifle her song before the words
Could take form.
I would not try to melt her down to be
Recast in my image for her.

If she was my daughter,
I would whisper instead for the winds
To gather in her ear.
I would conjure the wise woman to guide her into herself.
If she were my daughter, she would grow strong
In truth to her soul.
She would not have to grow her strength by untying
Someone else’s knots.
She would never have to find herself,
Because she would not have gotten lost.

The Space Between a Mother and Child
by Carol Parris Krauss, Ft. Lauderdale, FL
For Kelly

The hum of the fan, finger drums pull me
from my sleep. When you are away, I am
a light sleeper. Blue lights from the city
speckle the wall; the neighbor’s din rolls
me awake. I relocate to the porch, listen
to the palms scratch the back roof; dogs
scavenge behind the dumpster. You,
across town preparing for bed. Another
woman brushes your hair, wraps blankets
around you. Despite the distance, the space
between us is less than the air pocket we
cradle in our clasped hands.

by Maureen h Spisak, Huntington Station

I fancy myself an artist.
A patch of dirt, my canvas
A trowel and shovel, my brush.
A palette of lavender
A pot of sage.
I weed, I water, I wait
The earth becomes my studio
A garden I create.