Poetry

Creativity’s Grasp

We strive for our whole lives to make a creation,

Something we formed that we can call our own.

It can be profound, inspiring, or something to decorate our home.

And through this act will be our salvation.

By creating we release our imagination.

The world is ours to rethink and explore.

Anyone can do this, be them rich or poor.

All you require is the drive and determination.

Creating can be in the form of a simple illustration,

Or the composer of the song,

It could be the beautiful dresses for a wedding or prom.

As we know for writers, a clever narration.

One place where creativity lacks is in our own education.

They think it is trivial, and a waste of time.

“Who would use this in the real world?” well their world is not mine.

And through their ignorance will be our damnation.

Sometimes people give up, and I find this a frustration.

Never give up on what you were meant to do.

If you aren't creating, then it’s yourself, who isn't being true.

The world is hard and cruel, and to forget your dreams can be a temptation.

Creating is not merely a formation.

Through creating our soul takes flight.

And we can make people see things in a different light.

It is our own personal innovation.

-Kirsten M.

The Game is Afoot

I

I wish I could be you for but a day.

Your way of seeing things that others miss.

How I envy your solitary way.

Your methods used to catch your nemesis.

Is that a false nose I see before me?

No, perhaps it is simply a disguise.

Elementary, my dear is the key,

Such hair-brain schemes which seem to make you wise.

Bricks cannot be made without holding clay,

Thus is the way with the clues of foul crimes.

The need is there for clues to find your way,

Like all others you are a slave to time.

There is but one thing further, a strange fact...

Sherlock Holmes, why on earth were you named that?

II

We see through your eyes in our novel dreams,

And yet this might be your goal to trick us.

Day in and day out dealing with his schemes,

Are you a saint to deal with such a fuss?

You say trust me, I am a physician,

But then you are knocking them unconscious.

Your ready wit and to see suspicion,

Are ways to deal with your troubled conscience.

A more steadfast cohort there never was,

So sure is the manor by which you live.

It must be so taxing to you because,

Witty remarks you so willingly give.

Though you are both in many a dense tryst,

It is the price you pay, novelist.

-Courtney

An Image of Words

-Kirsten M.

Beauty

Look around you and be aware,

Of any beauty that may be near.

Flowers, paintings and sunset scenery,

Look at them particularly.

Are they beautiful to your eye?

Do they make you want to cry?

If not, why not?

If so, why so?

Could real beauty be perhaps something profound?

Something not visible and something not found?

What if real beauty is the emotion of attachment?

The feeling when you are one with the other?

What if real beauty is the eternal bond of friendship?

The string of unbreakable trust?

What if it is the love behind the kiss of a lip?

The feeling when you are one with the other?

Sceptics can argue the definition of beauty,

That it must be visible to the human’s eye.

But there are things I cannot see in this world,

That makes me want to cry.

                                                          -Samuel
Drugs

Drugs are conspicuously bad

And drugs are addictively good.

Too many, I had,

Tucked under the hood.

The smell of cocaine,

The taste of crystal methane.

I’m high in the brain,

'Cause there’s weed in my vain.

They say it’s bad for you,

But obviously not true.

                         -Samuel

The Kraken

Deep beneath the sea,

A titanic creature dwells.

Sorrowful as can be,

He is the Kraken.

Tentacled and fearsome,

He mourns the company he’s lackin’.

He’s scary to the eye,

But gentle in his heart.

None will be his friend,

no matter who he tries.

All he wants is a hug,

But when he embraces a passing ship,

He sinks it with a glug.

Woeful is his life,

Forever alone in the deep,

The kraken knows only strife.

                                   -Calum

I...Am Screwed

I’m screwed and I know it,

Tomorrow is the deadline,

So I better become a poet

And maybe all will be fine.

I had no idea, no clue that

I have to apply soon.

I procrastinated and sat,

So now I panic like a typhoon.

I wanted to university,

In the Toronto city.

It will be such a pity,

To miss this opportunity.

So here, I am screwed,

And all I do is complain.

Stressed with this attitude,

Smoke of fury like a train.

                         -Samuel

Homework Hurts

School work, school work

Oh how you seem to lurk

Behind every door way

Always ruining my day

Try to get it quickly done

Procrastination – much more fun

Deadlines getting closer                                                                             
Essay, seminar and poster

Days turn into weeks

I start to get the creeps

Worry sets in quick

The clock starts to tick

Friends ask me to play

I must turn them away

It’s starting to get late

Tomorrow’s the due date

Words start to fuzz together

My head feels like a feather

Exhaustion starts to set in

I don’t think I can win

I should have started before tonight

Woulda coulda shoulda right

It’s now approaching ten o’clock

I think I need a little walk

If I stop I will not finish

Kind of like eating spinach

Midnight comes, I’m still not done

My powerpoint video will not run

Panic mixes with frustration

I stick it out with determination

3 am I think it’s complete

I’m stuck in my computer seat

Crawl to bed and sleep a bit

Dream about failing it

Wake at 6 and feel like crying

Lack of sleep is worse than dying

Final touches and spell check

Man what a pain in the neck

All ready, I leave for school

Feeling like a major fool

Done earlier this wouldn’t be

A lot less panic and stress on me

Ready to hand in shaking with fear

Turns out my teacher isn’t even here

Supply announces deadline delayed

Last night wasted, I could have played.

-Tori

Footprints In The Snow

I see footprints in the snow,

And wonder what it was that made them,

My imagination wanders,

To the world of the fantastical.

The first that may have passed here,

It looks to be a rabbit,

But maybe with a tiger’s tail,

And the poisoned fangs of a serpent.

The second are of a fox,

But they suddenly disappear,

It must have had wings.

What else could it be?

The feet of a lumbering bear,

Just a bear, right? Wrong,

A mixed up chimera,

Bear, goat, jaguar.

Next looks like a deer,

A dainty little thing,

Or a passing unicorn,

With a proud mane like a lion.

 

Last it is a wolf,

Not a thing to change,

A wolf that looks how it is,

But dances among the stars at night.

So as I look into the snow,

And I see these footprints,

I soon become a child again,

With imagination to spare.

-Maureen

AWWW YEAH POETRY

Virginia W.

I.

Kitchen

Explosion

I lost my grip,

It fell

Flour everywhere

Fuck,

I look like a crack addict.

II.

III.

The jar he loved,

Now gone

It’s contents shattered and spilled

Sand thick,

Cold unfeeling dead

As well as all his dreams

O Captain Jack,

Don’t leave jars of dirt on counter edges.

IV.

Drowning,

Sour black tar fills my nose and mouth

Bubbles, drips and chokes

It runs down my chin.

This is a poem

A very bad one,

At the least

Alas with nothing to inspire,

Stream of consciousness takes over.