Jessica Prince

Victoria, British Columbia

Jessica is an avid learner and has been writing poetry since she was six. She enjoys reading, playing basketball and collecting anything to do with pigs. At age twelve, Jessica is in grade seven at Glenlyon-Norfolk School. Last year, 1995-1996, Jessica, her younger sister and her parents spent a year living in Scotland which Jessica believes was a beneficial experience. She has had her poetry published by the National Library of Poetry and a local newspaper. Jessica was presented with the Editor's Choice Award in 1995 and she says that, "Writing poetry is a device I use to express my feelings."

Rose

A perfectly sculpted beauty
Every delicate curve enticing me.
Dangerous thorns stud its stem.
Fending off awestruck admirers.
Honey bees dance around its petals,
Worshipping the silent beauty.
Jagged leaves around the slender stem,
Add calmness to her beautiful head.
Ever perfect petal curled,
The rose is a masterpiece.

Milly's Basement

I silently saunter to the weathered door,
My hesitant finger presses lightly on a plastic button.
Maybe I should return.
Are memories best left undisturbed?
A bird rustles in the overhead canopy.
The door opens a crack and a cautious eye peeks out,
Then the door is opened in recognition.
A women in loose colourful clothing welcomes me.
Her curly hair swept up in a radiant scarf,
And her furrowed face speckled with paint.
I nervously enter the cavern of my childhood,
I am no longer the child I was.
Little innocent children stare up at me in awe,
As they play with clay as I once did,
The walls, still speckled with paint,
And abandoned toys, lie neglected in a corner.
The window still looks onto a tangled backyard,
The peephole into a wild, lush, hidden jungle.
I stare dumb struck at how little has changed,
As if frozen forever in time.
Now as I see it through older eyes, I realize what it really is.
It is not simply an art class or a playtime,
But a calm oasis for children to create memories in.
Milly eyes me nervously, she appears intimidated.
Perhaps my older appearance scares her,
She hands me a long-forgotten clay bowl,
And I reluctantly leave the past cave of calm.
But I know I no longer belong here.

Time

Yesterday is a memory,
Tomorrow is an illusion:
Waiting to be experienced.
Yesterday is gone.
Past.
But today is ours,
To live and rejoice in.