Friday, January 27, 2023

The Two Faces of January

 Just as the name January comes to us from a Roman god, Janus, with two faces, so our post this month reflects love and peril, loss and adventure, nostalgia and Nikes. Writing and art are amalgams of all that we are. 

We hope you enjoy the fruits of our labor as a new calendar year begins!

Artwork by Chris H., Grade 8

A Peril Love 


Let it be known: 

Our novel love is a prototype 

for the screen. 

Exemplary and abiding,  

sure to age just as the eternal stars did. 


But time will wisp aways 

its evocation a souvenir, 

its echo imprinted for us only. 

Only to rewind and behold, 

for only to us is it bared 


To witness out affection disperse and tear, 

to implode like the stars, 

to survey the damage and fall to bits, 

reliving the dismantled fiction, 

would be all too dire. 


To adore you is a tragedy in of itself, 

for there are possibilities  

I’m not willing to chance. 


Until we meet our demise will I cherish it dear. 

For our love, though a peril jeopardy, is darling in the worst way. 

So for now, let this stay. 


By Avery H., Grade 9 


Artwork by Hailey T., Grade 9


Instead of looking through a keyhole, find the key and open the door 


Something I learnt too late. 

My world came crashing down 

My timbers of support have fallen 

In scarlet red flames and booming explosions 

And I kept looking for the perpetrator 

Holding the torch in their hand 

I spent so much time looking out, 

I didn’t stop and look down 

To see the burnt-out match 

Resting between my splintered fingers 


by Nia H., Grade 9 


Artwork by Rory G., Grade 9


These Are (Not and Never Will Be) My Words 


False, false words are ones that constantly flow out of our mouths 

          False are the words I will say (Nobody know, except me.) 

                         THE WORDS I SPEAK ARE NOT WHAT I WANT TO SAY. 

                                                    DON’T MAKE ME SAY MY REAL FEELINGS, 

     the mask I wear may crack, and fall to the ground in ashes 

                      my composure may shatter as well as my happiness, 

              LIFE IS NEVER FOREVER. 

                                                                    WHY DID I BECOME ATTACHED 

                                                                                                                                STOP MY PAIN 


                          I AM ON MY KNEES 

                                  STOP MY PROBLEMS FROM LEAKING OUT 

          my feelings are overflowing, they’re spilling 

                            WHY WON’T IT STOP, 

                                                                      MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT STOP 


    help me. 

           stop it. 

                                                YOU CAN’T HELP ME 

                                                                         why am I so na├»ve. always so stupid. always so sad. 

                                                          CRYING SHOWS WEAKNESS, I AM WEAK. 


        I substitute my words to cover my sorrow. 

          so I won’t break in front of everyone. 

               why did you die? Why do I have to speak at your funeral? 

                            I now need to pretend that the words are mine (they aren’t, and never will be). 

  why did you leave me, to say these words, as if I’m being graded 

                                                                                                           because you died. 


by Ellana K., Grade 7 


Artwork by Amelia U., Grade 9


A Quiet Moment 


I love my purple life jacket. 

The one from the back room. 

It fits snuggly. 


All new and different. 

Things I’ve never done before. 

Helpful hand guides me. 


Lucky hat for success, 

fresh bait on the hook. 

He casts, I watch. 


How wonderful he is; 

Gentle heart, strong mind. 

Love is a word I use to describe. 


He casts over his shoulder 

Standing tall, soft as a bear. 

He hands me the rod. 


We watch and wait. 

A moment so simple, 

yet ever so special. 


It’s not when, 

or how, or where, 

but who. 


Thank you, Grandpa. 


by Julia N., Grade 9