With
      the
      weather
      cold
      and
      exams
      a
      curse,
     
     
      I
      sought
      to
      convey
      my
      thoughts
      in
      verse.
     
     
      Stumped
      was
      I
      when
      I
      first
      set
      out,
     
    

    
     
      As
      I
      knew
      not
      what
      to
      write
      about.
     
    

    
     
      With
      storms
      and
      study
      on
      my
      mind,
     
    

    
     
      And
      problems
      of
      a
      million
      kinds,
     
    

    
     
      I
      set
      out
      on
      a
      walk
      reflective,
     
    

    
     
      Of
      my
      mood
      so
      introspective.
     
    

    
     
      Hands
      thrust
      in
      my
      pockets
      deep,
     
    

    
     
      I
      trotted
      quickly,
      content
      to
      keep,
     
    

    
     
      Time
      with
      the
      music
      in
      my
      ears
     
    

    
     
      Which
      drowned
      out
      crowds
      of
      people
      near.
     
     
      “Twas
      evident
      the
      season
      turn’d,
     
    

    
     
      As
      it
      was
      easy
      to
      discern,
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Every
      snowflake
      in
      the
      sun,
      Winking
      merrily
      in
      unison.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      A
      smile
      drew
      upon
      my
      face,
     
    

    
     
      Much
      to
      my
      surprise.
     
    

    
     
      It
      appeared
      my
      mouth
      had
      much
      enjoyed,
     
     
      The
      wanderings
      of
      my
      eyes.
     
    

    
     
      I
      smothered
      quickly
      that
      hint
      of
      joy,
     
    

    
     
      So
      those
      around
      would
      not
      suspect,
     
    

    
     
      My
      silly
      smiles
      were
      not
      of
      joy
     
    

    
     
      But
      inferior
      intellect.
     
    

    
     
      But
      I
      couldn’t
      contain
      it;
      this
      joyous
      day,
     
     
      Seem’d
      to
      have
      put
      rubber
      on
      my
      shoes.
     
     
      A
      bounce
      was
      added
      to
      my
      gait,
     
    

    
     
      Which
      I
      was
      powerless
      to
      lose.
     
    

    
     
      How
      bizarre
      I
      must
      have
      looked
      to
      those,
     
     
      About
      their
      business
      for
      the
      day,
     
    

    
     
      A
      jolly
      man
      of
      twenty
      one,
     
    

    
     
      Prone
      to
      skip
      and
      to
      sashay.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      I
      hadn’t
      gone
      a
      few
      steps
      more
     
    

    
     
      (Or
      were
      they
      leaps?
      I
      am
      unsure)
     
    

    
     
      When
      the
      music
      stopped
      within
      my
      head,
     
    

    
     
      And
      I
      glanced
      unto
      my
      iPod
      —
      dead.
     
    

    
     
      Lo,
      I
      heard
      music
      sweeter
      still,
     
    

    
     
      That
      of
      babes
      upon
      the
      hill.
     
    

    
     
      Not
      Wayne
      and
      Garth’s
      babes,
      nor
      Bill
      and
      Ted’s,
     
     
      But
      children
      fast
      upon
      their
      sleds.
     
    

    
     
      Squealing
      brightly
      through
      ride’s
      end,
     
    

    
     
      With
      each
      bump
      and
      bounce
      and
      turn
      and
      bend.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Returning
      home,
      my
      spirits
      lifted,
     
     
      Rosy
      cheeked
      and
      quick
      with
      pen,
     
     
      The
      first
      few
      verses
      I
      wrote
      down
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Universally
      speaking:
     
     
      A
      humble
      request
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Verily
      I
      remembered
      them.
     
    

    
     
      Revisiting
      now,
      with
      gentle
      heart
     
    

    
     
      I-tear
      my
      fond
      stanzas
      apart.
     
    

    
     
      I
      chastise
      the
      rhyme
      and
      decry
      the
      purpose,
     
     
      And
      wonder
      when
      what
      I
      meant
      will
      surface.
     
     
      Those
      happy
      memories
      are
      soon
      forgotten
     
     
      When
      I
      look
      upon
      my
      work
      as
      rotten.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      A
      plea
      I
      make,
      from
      me
      to
      you
      —
     
     
      Let
      me
      destroy
      your
      work,
      as
      I
      can
      do!
     
    

    
     
      Send
      your
      submissions,
      word
      or
      art,
     
    

    
     
      I
      will
      waste
      no
      time
      when
      I
      tear
      them
      apart.
     
     
      Creative
      content
      do
      we
      seek,
     
    

    
     
      For
      our
      creative
      issue,
      out
      next
      week!
     
    

    
     
      If
      you
      are
      embarrassed
      by
      what
      you
      put
      in
      verse,
     
     
      Fear
      not;
      the
      editor
      has
      done
      worse.
     
    
   
   
    
     
        
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
      'UPEI
      Creative
     
     
      issue
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
     
        
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Deadline
      for
      the
      Cadre
      creative
     
     
      issue
      is
      Wednesday,
      Dec.
      12,
     
     
      2007.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Feel
      free
      to
      submit
      your
      short-
     
     
      stories,
      poems,
      drawings,
      cCar-
     
     
      toons
      or
      other
      original
      works
      to
      .
      7010101
     
     
      upeicadre@gmail.com.
      a
      6
     
    
   
   
    
     
        
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
      AG
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Any
      submissions
      deemed
      dis-
     
     
      tasteful
      or
      offensive
      will
      be
      dis-
     
     
      regarded.
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
      How
      is
      this
      edition
     
     
      All
      submissions
      become
      prop-
      of
      The
      Cadre?
     
     
      erty
      of
      the
      Cadre.
      If
      you
      have
      any
      comments,
     
     
      opinons
      or
      letters
      to
      the
     
     
      editors,
      send
      them
      to
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
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