1a ol
a ca Tat

 

 

Naomi Ambrose
Staff Writer

A Tale of Two Oceans

 

The sun is dazzlingly bright,
high above the cloudless sky,

where it shines like a yellow light,
too bright for birds to fly.

Quietly whizzing away,
the wind touches my arms;
inviting me to come her way,
to feel the love of her charms.

As I jog along the road,

a thunderous wave roars,

like my grandma had once foretold,
when the Atlantic Ocean soars.

The wall of the heavy black boulders,
protect the joggers and drivers nearby,
from the force of the churning blue water,
that wants to say to us, “Hi.”

Will that be the welcome we receive,
from the Atlantic Ocean at Pigeon Point?
Oh no, oh please don't believe;

for the Caribbean Sea will not disappoint.

What a calming body of water,

for all those who see her at day,

like she’s holding a newborn daughter,

in the sea with her mother who wants to stay.

Will the mother stay when the sea is packed,
with swimmers, bathers, and children;

on the weekends when the beach is stacked,
in the northern town on the island of Helen?

Not to be forgotten, Lady Atlantic is still a delight,

for the surfers, swimmers and captains who would like,
to bea rocky and wobbly steel spike,

as they dont feel the ocean’s deep blue fright.

The surfers and swimmers I see,

dance and sway to the beat,

of the powerful waves of the Atlantic sea,
ona weekday filled with late afternoon heat.

Such a sight for the tourists who stay,

in the hotels along the beaches’ vicinity,

as they witness the beauty today,

of two oceans who are no match for the city.

How lucky are those busy vendors,

selling clothes, juices, and food;

in a backdrop with breathtaking splendours,
with a picturesque view that’s stunningly good.

In the midst of the light gusts of wind,
the smell of the salty seas,

is a wonder from within,

the hot plates of rice and peas.

As I walk briskly the sea seems to be,

like curtains of royal blue velvet,

mixed with white foam that seems to me,
to be wide like a large white jacket.

The brown sticks that lay in the sand,

give it a pleasing cinnamon colour.

The twigs are surprisingly grand;

no doubt they will be worth more than a dollar.

When I finish my jog at Pigeon Point,

I look at the seas while I wonder:

who will be the one to anoint,

these two oceans with much more to discover.

 

 

 

 

Tabula rasa

Caroline Ho
Assistant Editor

 

White sheet, blank page, just empty space
I'm full of possibility

no lines no rules nothing but room

just express creativity

come fill me with your words, your thoughts,
your hopes and hates and fears and dreams
craft artful prose, jot down some notes

on hapless, half-baked, heartfelt schemes

I've so much promise—does this daunt you
wondering how you should start

just get that first word written down

but isn’t this the hardest part

come on, time’s passing by so fast

is this all you can do, just stare

and ponder, dither, clock’s a-ticking
you know we have to start somewhere

or are you really so in fear

of making that first mark upon

my pristine surface, unmarred, perfect
scared the words will come out wrong

you know we're ready, go ahead

it’s time to fill this empty space
who cares so what if you mess up
not like these words can't be erased.