W I N N E R O F T H E J O S H U A W E I N Z W E I G P O E T R Y C O N T E S T, G R A D E 9
THERE IS WARMTH UNDER FROST ____________________________________________________________ by Harrison Frank, Grade 9 Candlelight: Illuminating the painful beauty Of my torn heart strings. I am alone.
I shall not play God And quench his thirst, As I am not, nor will I ever be, both mother and father.
Like a bird perched on a branch, I ponder my future. My mind may wander Like a traveller on its own.
Dear John, Crouched in the cold, Frozen under ice. Still burned, but now from frost, Piercing skin all over any living soul— Needles of suffering and hatred— Meant for pain, not pleasure. But it is I who adore its attention.
Not unlike the cruelness of summer, The joy of play is greeted by a blaze of sun. The heat of life stares down with a plan of its own. What might have been, had you not left? Dear John, A swipe of the pencil’s end, Rough against paper. It is as though you wished to be erased. The sun has been seen from every angle since your departure. Like crows surrounding a corpse, thoughts circle in my head and I search for you like I search for a purpose. Dear John, When are you to return? Born, more beautiful than a flower in blossom, Though unloved without all its roots, Grasping at the soil for nutrients That I could never give. It craves your love and attention, For it is your son, and you, its father. The drought that has come Of love and of hope. Our flower may be newly born, But all the same, flora needs both light and water.
–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
28
Eyes of hazel will never gaze upon the surface again. In the frost, I am untouched. I can breathe for seconds at a time. And finally, free my mind. Dangerously, I revisit the ice at every chance. Comforting, warming. Not feeling scorched, but welcome Like an addiction, I will always return. My love, John Our pearl of the Earth, Safe in your roots— The roots of your nurturer. He will never feel the sun, My sun, the scorch of life. Nor will he be greeted by ice In my untimely frost. It is not the end that comes for me, It is my growing impatience That leads me, to it. For one final breath under the surface.
