Happiness
By: Aidan, 5th grade
Happiness is a flitting emotion
Twinkling from head to head,
As if a hummingbird drinking
From a bed of flowers
It serves no purpose but to make us weak
For when sadness and anger set in
To remove us from the world of sanity.
For what is happiness
But the servant of love,
A fiend of the darkest
Imaginations
Only those wise enough can hide
For what is happiness
But a hound dog,
With a nose sharper than
The greatest tracker.
It will hunt you down,
On any day,
Even a rainy one
And devour you, like a wild animal
Before leaving you to die
On a dank corner of your mind.
For what is happiness
But a wild beast
Capable of only contempt
Towards mortal beings
Such as us.
No one can escape
the clutches of happiness
but only the wise can delay the inevitable.
For what is happiness
But a disease
That will devour your conscience
And leave you an empty soul,
Susceptible to anything,
Even
LOVE.
Prince Pumpkin
Prince Edward
Received a pumpkin
For Halloween
One year.
It came in a package
Stuffed with corn.
He cut it open
And out jumped a cat!
It twirled out of reach,
and tiptoed through the air.
He called in the guards,
And they jumped to
Attention
The cat dashed through the halls
As lithe as ever.
The cat scurried in and out of reach
With all the grace of a falcon.
Back with Prince Pumpkin,
He was pacing the room
In a dizzying orchestra
Of circles.
A sky-blue flame
Leapt into of life
In the pumpkin
It sprouted eyes and a mouth
And with a shuddering laugh,
Leapt onto Edward’s head.
From that day on,
Behind his back,
Edward was
Prince Pumpkin.
Rainbow
On a day
With a cloudy sky
Above the bottomless Grand Canyon
The shimmering grey clouds
Part
To reveal a
Sight beyond
Comparison.
A rainbow.
A glittering rainbow.
A glittering, shimmering rainbow.
A Bridge of countless prisms
Hung on nothing
A tiny miracle
Of a hundred wonders,
A rainbow.
Dog
Dog, I am
I am Dog
Man’s best friend
Puppy was me
Now dog, I am
Carefree days
Of toys and bones
High-strung days
Of golden meadows
and green parks
The dappled shade
Of cool summer forests
Patterns
The well-beaten path
Upon which my
Age-old feet scramble
Reminded of days gone by
I stop to rest
And remember
Those never-ending summer days
Of friends and family
I raise my head
And howl
to the butter-pat harvest moon.
Scapa
I walk down the speckled hallway
Of my school, Scapa
School
For the
Creative
And Performing
Arts
I wonder who built
This place
And why someone ever started it.