Our Secondary students enjoyed Petra’s first ever Poetry Slam, an element of the House artistic competition. Students spent several weeks looking at the Fruit of the Spirit as described in Galatians 5:22 and were challenged to write a poem that reflected one or all of the virtues listed. Nineteen students took up the challenge and then presented before the student body, with two of our Humanities teachers scoring their efforts both in writing and presentation. Below are our 4th and 5th place poems.
Once in a land that was far, far away,
there happened a story, that is still told today.
It warns you of sin and toils of vice
and tell you how to do things that are nice.
Sounds cheesy, I know, but don’t let your eyes roll,
for there is much danger in no self-control.
There lived a man in the city of Sol,
whose unfortunate name was Abaddon Joel.
His parents didn’t love him from the day he was born,
so he was often left alone and forlorn.
No one was there to teach him good things,
like how to tie shoes, or how a bee stings.
But one thing that was never taught to Joel
was how to practice self-control.
Being alone to himself all day long,
he wasn’t like other boys, fast and strong.
He was more of the squishy sort, and by no means an athlete,
but rather enjoyed eating many a sweet.
His face would be stuffed to the brim with taffy,
after a few years, he became quite a fatty.
And nothing could be done for Abaddon Joel,
for alas, the man had no self-control.
Every day passed and he only swelled,
he could no longer fit the place that he dwelled.
Nor could he see his toes anymore
or walk up the stairs, much less to the store.
His stomach would rumble and tumble and roar,
but the idiot would only eat more and more.
Until his guts burst at the seams
as he persisted eating creams.
His insides then popped with a bang!
And as his intestines flew, the air rang
with the lesson that must stay in your soul,
for God’s sake, have a little self-control.
Otherwise if you do not,
and please don’t let this be an afterthought,
Control your will and avoid this sin,
and do a favor for that poor intestine.
Trembling hand holds steady flame —
The frozen flowers of haemetichue fall
Calmly, grey-haired savant ambles near,
Firmly grips shaking shoulder with a hand
While the other
Dusts the table top.
With a huff leans down and whispers
What this tongue can recite quite capably —
What my ear recognizes almost as a well-known
Tale known only well by two.
His voice sounds like a tuning radio —
And I tune him out. Amidst the
Vainly prescribed dull humming,
The blood-red tongue demands I pay it mind.
The steady flicker–that composed chide —
Is new to me, though I had long before
Taken to memory the script and
Listened to the words.
I hear the pepper-bearded man, but with
Renewed heart at last. Grasping
Steady flame with even hand,
I start my task anew.