Lily Pad by Brooke (8)

The water blossoms round a floating leaf,

It compliments surroundings with a splash.

A natural craft but within nature’s brief,

Like water droplets never meditate.

But something of absence will camouflage,

Unless it is just tricks from beaming sun.

Before the bud grasps light it seeks applause,

From neighbours far and wide but all just smite.

For she is far more lovely than the crowd.

There is no speaking out in argument,

For gossiping transforms the air to shroud.

Yet none can perform such an ordinance.

I wish someone could just hold me so tight,

That I could finally bloom and taste the light.

From Above by Brooke (8)

Cars pass by in a fashion uniformed,

Compassion only follows in their path.

A boom, a crash the traffic jam has formed;

Rapacious engine, dust incurs the wrath;

Blinding pungent of petrol grasps the scene;

Disorder, madness, uproar, and, trouble,

Raging machines empty the city clean,

The ghost of fear appears on the double.

Tick Tock, Tick Tock, Tick Tock, Tick Tock, Tick Tock

I’m late I’m late, I cross the road, repeat.

I cross the road but mere glance proves a shock,

Around the corner metal machines meet.

I can not witness such a dreadful stage,

But everyday the distant shapes engage.

In the style of Emily Dickinson by Eleanor P (8)

(1)

Am I waiting for–the same fate–

That ne'er lets Us deny–

How great can Life be if so short

How much achieved in Time–

Some people say that all Death does

Is change–from is to was–

We miss the Thoughts of Friends who were–

Gone to Eternity–

(2)

Waiting–silent–unseen–hidden–

And spreading through your

Body–you've forgot the meaning–

The feeling–the sense–warmth

Waiting–watching for any sign

Of movement–beyond here–

Beyond this bush–for a chance to

End this–my endless–wait

Snow crashes through the branches above–

Disturbance betwixt trunks–

I am deluded–I have hope–

I wait–I am unseen–

(3)

The Huntsman's store is full again–

Innocent bucks and fawns–

Not knowing they had been condemned–

Until time too far gone–

Sometimes Glory disables minds–

Sometimes Reason is lost–

Boys do men's work–leaving houses

Not ever to return–

In the style of Robert Frost by Eleanor P (8)

The Prophets

The trees are still asleep, without their leaves;

The crocuses yet to peak out of snow.

But a lovely orchestra above me,

A newfound that spring will come at last.

Nearly thirty fly in a loose formation,

Geese returning marks the change of season.

Birds pushing hope down to earth with each wing-beat:

A newfound that spring will come at last.