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

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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

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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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ESKIMOS They come and go Through perpetual winter's cloak, Trudging, dreary, weary through the blinding snow Never yielding--no, never a word. Their faces rimmed with native furs, Their shining black eyes, deep wells of emptiness Their teeth--upspringing white flowers in the soft warm earth. Trapping, hunting, fishing--year in, year out They come and go Lorraine Murray, Form IV First Prize Intermediate Poetry NIGHT IN THE FCREST The silence of the woods is broker. By the call of the wild geese flying Across the moonlit sky. A hunter's Shot echoes through the lonely night. The Peaceful lake is still, except for small Ripples washing up onto the shore. Deer bashfully walk out of the edge Of the forest for a moonlight drink. Occasionally a fish may be Heard splashing in the water. A loud cry Warning the animals danger is Approaching. Finally all the creatures Have settled down and gone off to sleep, And now the forest is silent except For an occasional rustle, splash, Or perhaps a cry from soome sleepless Animal. Nancy Lemon, Form ll First Prize Junior Poetry BONJOUR MONSIEUR PUSSYCAT Bonjour Monsieur Pussycat, Que s'assit upon my mat. Comment tu est beau today, Peut-etre you should s'enaller. Le grand chien is over there So lave vos pattes tout de suite mon cher. ll n'aime pas cats near chez lui. ll est mechant. lsn't he? So au revoir mon pussycat Cherchez-vous une autre mat. Louise Nebbs, Form Il Third Prize Junior Poetry LOST The dark street glowed with the last hours of dusk. It then began to grow darker and the cobble- stone grew colder. The narrow street was lined with tall, town-houses, whose overhanging second stories caused the street to be dark and gloomy. The bustle of the day was settling down to quiet and rest. The darkness seemed thick, like a heavy fog, as it settled slowly over the village. She fell once, then twice and drooped her weary head from utter exhaustion. Her name was Sarah. She was a tall, slight girl with a small, curved mouth, and large, brown eyes which were framed with thick, black lashes. Her delicate and fine-boned face added much to her rare attractive- ness. Her main feature was her long, glossy brown hair which hung, tangled, to her waist. Sarah wore a thin and faded blue cotton dress that hung loosely on her small shoulders. It was almost completely soaked through, and was badly in need of some mending. She had no shoes and her bare feet, which she tried to keep warm by tucking under herself, werevcold and wet. Earlier, she had wandered out from the warmth and shelter of her poor home, to escape from the noise and fuss of her ten brothers and sisters and, in a short time, had found herself lost.