Bowmanville High School - Screech Owl Yearbook (Bowmanville, Ontario Canada)

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2nd Prize Poetry The Lady, the House, the Wall A grand old house that stood behind a wall Of stone, when we were young and liked to play And shout, just caught our fancy, one and all. We jumped and hopped around that Wall all day. Now in this house there lived a kind old soul, She used to give us snacks and watch us foll. Oh yea, we thought that she was really cool! But then her many years just took their toll. Some men with brand new housing plans just bought The fine old house and wall, and that was that. The wrecking crews began to work a lot, And on one day I walked just past this lawn I realized, the house, the wall gone. By Mark Elliott 3B The Black Orchid I lie awake sometimes at night Wondering why I wasn't born white. Black is beautiful, some people say. But from every job I'm turned away. I've gone to college and learned my trade But I'm still called a colored spade . People I meet stop and stare, Call me names - but I don't care. I stand tall among the crowd Black's my colour and I am proud. Terri Embree 1B Mark I went to see Mark today, I felt I should have gone. He might as well have been shackled, With apathy holding the key. The spark in his life Long since extinguished Not by the tears But by the spit. His castrated soul Sleeping now, forever. As I left I smiled at Mark . . . It was all I could do. But why do I feel like a hypocrite? Chris Terhune 3A

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1st Prize Poetry People say, I understand When they haven't thought for years. People say, I'm sorry But they don't shed any tears. People say, I thank you But their faces wear no smile. People say, How are you? With thoughts elsewhere the while. People say, Too bad When really they do not care. People say, I like it When it hasn't got a prayer. People say, I love When the gift they bring is woe. People say, I'll see But the answer will be, 'No.' Merry Bridges 3A Memories Its desks are nearly shambles, Its shades and blinds are torn, Because of age it trembles And seems to be forlorn. In every room the plaster Is either chipped or cracked, But we'd have to write much faster To name the things they lacked. The students - we attract them With Yearbooks, and it's true, That Frango, Frangere, Fregi, Fractum He crushed the head of who? We come to all the games, And cry, Go Redmen Go! And every team we play we shame, It's worth it for C.O.S.S.A., though. But now the time is here When we must pack our books And leave this place so dear For one with better looks. Carole VandeMeent 3B

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Jumping- Off Place The canoe is repainted some ribs mended paddles fresh-varnished the fire blackened frypan wedged in the bow. Sleeping bags tightly rolled wait by the ripples at the jumping-off place. Tonight we will sleep with stiff shoulders somewhere out there where the pines march sighing into the west. There will be white water snags rocks below the surface mud-slippery portages flies. We will dip our paddles into lost lakes tears of sorrow or joy? Will the sun paint the sky at evening or drop blood red into twisted forests of no return? Might it not be safer to let time refine memory behind closed doors beside a sheltered fireplace? Some of us are not coming this time can we do without J their skill their laughter keen eyes for beauty and danger? You take the stern this trip and I the bow. We'll need more than memories when rivers boil around us. Keep the compass safe the map's not much use At the jumping-off place. Jane Cattran 3B