Balmoral Hall School - Optima Anni Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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THE VIETNAM DEAD Dawn breaks over the plush Green paddifields, and the Valley lights up with the sun's smile. Chickens, hounds and little children's voices Mingle in the peaceful sounds Of a rural country village near Bien Hoa. A small speck appears over the mountain rim. A siren sounds--wild scramble ensues. Then With a swoop the swarm invades The land--ripping apart The verdant pastures with violent fury Then disappears. The echoing silence is shattering, terrible And survivors pick their Way over their child's remains Dumb with grief, numb with shock-- They look upwards towards The unyielding blue of the summer skies. Joyce Lee, Form V First Prize Senior Poetry MARCH POEM lt was hard to wile away those hours, Even with the flowers we bought As charms to turn the earth Towards the sun again, Even with the voyages and visitations We celebrated, and the births and changes From winter to spring was a long time. Resurgence in the streets is cried now, Children sail boats in puddles by the curbs, Following along in big, black boots, shiny with Water, With no idea of any wider sea which they may Reach. They know Spring, like other things, is changeless And want no new gods, no coming of the kingdom, Which we do not hope for either, yet the winter Having to be got through somehow, we pretended. Anne Morton, Form VI Second Prize Senior Poetry RELEASE The world spins around Revelling in the invention of sound, Industry hums, the mill wheel sings, Still a land where the church bell rings. The rat-a-tat-tat of war Sinks deep to the core, The cry of politicians, The roar of statisticians. To be free from all the humdrum The beat rising like the sun Unbeatable in the night light, I must take flight. I long to run through the drowsy hush, Unto the meadows soft and lush, Where sun setting leaves a mist upon the land And in my soul, Bliss. Catherine Rowed, Form VI Third Prize Senior Poetry A SPRING WALK The tramp was walking through the woods for the sheer joy of being so close to nature. He had to cross a swollen, rushing brook whose clear water glistened as it tumbled over the rocks. Once safely over the brook, he still had to negotiate a patch of snow left in a hollow. Above him, the birds were too busy building their nests to notice him as he limped along. The moss covering the forest floor was so moist and spongy that it squelched when stepped on. The grass growing between the patches of moss looked like sparkling emeralds, the vivid green broken only by the gold and white heads of spring flowers. Mingled was the heavenly smell of pine, with the heavier scents of spruce ahd cedar. The birches seemed almost as bare as in winter, to him, with only the buds showing the promise of new leaves to come. The fawns pushed from behind the trees incuriosity. The beauty of this scene and the mild- ness of weather make the tramp glad he had chosen his way of life. Margaret Burns, Form Ill First Prize Intermediate Essay

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-. ll ,G-Y'-t-1 IN COLD SILENCE It was a cold, still afternoon, with a hard steel gray sky overhead. Planes had been bombing for over eighteen hours. Two weary soldiers could be seen crouching low in a trench. The surrounding countryside lay bleak and bare. Corpses, dells, and quarries exposed their shabby poverty pathetically. They no longer rioted in rich masquerade as they had done during the leafy summer. Everything was now bold, bare, and black, The soldiers stooped low, and in silence. Both were young, not over twenty-three years of age. One was tall, swarthy, with intense dark brown eyes. He had a jutting forehead and a scar marked his left cheek. He was covered in dust. His pants, tattered and torn, his shirt ripped at the back, and his bare feet were blue with the cold. The other soldier wore a helmet pulled far down over his eye- brows, and a gun was slung over his back. His clothes, too, were in a shambles, his hands and face bruised and sore. He took refuge from the cold under an old blanket-coat. The wind turned from chilly to icy as it swept bitterly across the brownish grasses on the lonely hillside. lt was five o'clock. The rattling of machine-guns drew nearer. The drone of the engines of the approaching planes increased. A voice barked orders over a radio which had been thrown down on the floor of the muddy trench. The soldier clutched his gun, alert, listening anxiously. Everything seemed to be closing in on him. Planes were now roaring above them. They were no longer alone. Trenches were filled with allies and enemies. More commands rushed over the radio. The two friends met each others eyes gravely and sincerely. Silence reigned between them amid the noise of war. Nothing was said but their facial expressions revealed their thoughts. Neither spoke, but both understood. Wrapping his coat tightly around his chest one soldier turned quickly and darted from the trench, dodging bullets--obeying his orders. He then stumbled and lay lifeless on the cold ground. His friend, following intently his every move, turned away to hide the burning tears which trickled down his cheek. He wished he was dead. He looked towards the threatening sky, and it was then that this was not the end, that he could not give-up. A whole new light was shed on the picture, He now had worth. He now had two lives to live: his friend's and his own. Sarah Everett Form IV First Prize Intermediate Short Story

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LIKE A TIGER Like a tiger, spring slyly creeps Upon us. lt moves closer, it waits To pounce, as winter its rest seeks. Quietly, stealthily it brushes The foliage lightly, as it passesg Leaving behind a drop of life. Leaping from trees to grasses It lands noiselessly on soft pads. And startles the unsuspecting Frost and snow. And all thaw In a shower of sun, eating Away the cold, like a tiger. Jane Briggs, Form V Third Prize Senior Poetry MAG ESTY The high pines of the northern slopes Soar in the sky with majestic might. They are the kings of the forest And tower over their domain Bearing the seeds of future kings On their wide furry boughs Their slim bodies blow gently Honourable Mention Senior Poetry THE SKIER From up above, the swirling flakes danced down And into my eyes. They helped me lose the Balance that was so important to my sport. The minute town at the base of my mountain Looked up and judged my talents As one on skies. And I realized that control l may not have but the spirit welled-up in me And I hoped the exuberant feeling inside would Not give way to fear that was aroused when I Gazed down the slope. The vast white expanse looked up from below And in eagerness l dug my poles into the ground Pushing behind me the makeshift plateau of the snow Where I had been standing, till then stable and Sound. My few moments of flight were all too Soon complete . . . and I waited in line for a tow At my mountain's foot. Laura Johnston, Form VI Honourable Mention Senior Poetry Bog H1051 -X 11305 Kiss -I-hz B-bf' has Sydney Kennedy, Form VI E PGEM The beat is there. I can hear so clearly Yet interpretation is not in words. My head rolls in thought. The Doors open my mind, I am stimulated by the Vanilla Sound, colour, and sight are there. Are they real? Yes, this isn't The End Pam Dangerfield, Form V Honourable Mention Senior Poetry - 'Y .SAWJSJNEEREQJR 1-H5 BARON There was once a girl called Baron That was consistently angry with Maren When asked the reason why, She would quickly say good-bye, And then Baron would chase after Maren Maren Hansen, Form IV