a kaleidoscope of poetry

Chiyo Brown illustrated by Ali Kealey In the vast grassland she lay, Far removed from the cold breath of winter Far from the bitter sadness of the night, Laughing as the flowers brushed against her cheeks. As the grass way back and forth Like the gentle ebbing and flowing of the sea, Butterflies danced among the flowers, Their colourful wings like rich cloths, glowing in the summer warmth. A stream bubbled nearby, It's happy melody sung by the wind, The water-bugs, the reeds, As it made its way past the grassy meadow.

She had not moved from this meadow for many years, And had often a night sat their, Watching as fireflies, like tiny fragments of stars Gently floated around the reeds in the summer, Their fragile beauty brushing her fingertips Before dying the following morning. She had often sat there, Whistling to the birds during empty winter nights When the meadow was covered with thick snow, and would watch As they ate small seeds and grains from the fall harvest. She saw flowers emerge from the ice, Easily reaching for Springs warm hand Only to be burnt off by Winter’s cruel breath.

She had silently watched the meadow thousands of years, Laughing and weeping alongside all that lived there. But for now, it was springtime, And so she would dream, Dream all day without a stir.

Forever Weary

Zoe Martin Before, the sun did not shine. Death's arm lay heavy over land. Many men were dragged in by his reel, And dark red stained deep many hands.

But now the wrecks fall away dissolve back into time Young ash trees outward and new sunshine sublime.

Flowing water glistens under shining sun and earth turns its carefree course. But in the shadowed corner wispy dark spirit lingers and feels no remorse.

Stop! Why must wisps grow? Stop! Why must death always take? Why is there always a bit of prophet? Must man be filled with dark red hate? Rain clouds cover sun- they want more. The past has made us dreary! With the earth to rest or let it dry! For we are forever weary.

pe of poetry

Nothing to Say

Alannah Williams I stop. I start. My mouth begins to open, then slams shut. A whisper growing louder, the one that knows I should speak. The silence is awkward. I should speak. I have nothing to say. What should I do? This is a risk... My mental voice speaks constantly, in a way my other voice doesn’t. The one that has to speak to other people. I know that I should speak, and the silence is a presence, so loud, so knowing, and it knows that I won’t break it. Like smoke or fog, the atmosphere is tangible, like it’s transferred to the realm of the physical, and it’s delicate, a pane of glass, draped with spiderwebs of cracks, and one wrong move will break it. I have nothing to say.

One day, I will speak my mind, remove the filter from my mouth and just let everything out. Somewhere safe. One day, I will speak.

But not today. Glory Untainted

Abby Eastment, illustrated by Ali Kealey Beyond the hills of chilling dusk, Crouched in the dark, preparing fields of yield. Hibernating bulbs of flowers, Poised to unfurl at the break of day.

When the sun rises, and breaks over the hills, Then we shall see the longawaited spring, In its bright and colourful glory, The flowers unfurling in a sunny morning.

Therefore, wait, for the long awaited spring, Or its glory is untainted when it arrived last.