Writing From Roseau

Poems from 1st Hour

Roseau High School, Sophomore Class


To Remember

By Tristan Anderson


The grass brings me back

Allows to remember.


My old house, playing on days

Before church, not worrying


About the future.Swinging

With my sisters, a time


Long gone. To push our red

Mower around, arms aching.


Maybe too far, onto a sapling.

Old tires so meticulously stacked


Under plywood, playing for

Hours among the trees.


My cousins, visiting, turning

Into a permanent stay.  The


Fun we had then, now

Realized to be the


Result of a bad situation.


The Bitter Cold

By Aiden Braun


The bitter cold

Always there and not

Three years ago I felt it.


The cold that scraps into bones.

I was new to the Northern Star

From where I came was the Lone Star.


Mostly cold all year long.

No more deadly heat.

How I wish for heat.


The is always here.

It never leaves.

Now into my bones, never to leave.



By Peter VandeWege


The morning breaks.  It’s a new day.

I roll over in my bed and turn off my alarm.


My feet touch the cold floor and twitch.

I look for my slippers. The dog has them.


As I pull the sheets away the

Cool air flows around my warm drowsy body.


I saunter my way to the bathroom for water

Then back to get changed.


As I pull on my socks I remember the

Soreness of my body from the day prior.


The stairs creak as I make my way

Downstairs for breakfast.

Eggs and toast are on my plate.

I look around. Dad is gone to work already.


I finish eating and I brush my teeth.

As I come downstairs again I look at my dog.


She is curled up with my slipper.

I walk over and pat her on her head.


My backpack is ready and filled.

My lunch is clipped to the side.


I put it on and walk out the door

Back to school.



By Ben Olson


The field seem so endless,

To the eye, peaceful.


Turn around and gaze

The friendly town.


See the people sleep in their homes

So peaceful yet cold to the feeling.


Watch the river flow so gloomy

How the soothing sounds make peace.


Watch the fish hop in the ditch,

Relax while you stare at the fair.


All the colors from the flashing rides

On a July night. Wait with your tickets


Get to a ride, hand the tickets over

For them to get ripped.


But don’t blink, for summer is brief,

Summer is swift.


A Familiar Woods

By Candance Omdahl


A familiar woods, albeit small

Where hours were shared with willing company.

Clumsily fumbling up branching trees

Which held more wisdom than our eyes may ever witness.


Carefully avoiding the reaching tendrils of poison ivy

Wish to temporarily mar our skin.


Collecting frail twigs left to wilt. Stacking them

So that in our minds blazed a living fire.



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