19 April Written Post 2008

“A Nameless Woman”
Do you want to get lunch some day in Philadelphia
or do you want to remain my anonymous confidante
like Tchaikovsky
and the duchess
- Brendan Sullivan, University of Pittsburgh, Class of 2011, PA.
 
“When I Give Up”
When I give up,
The old steps sigh like I do as they take me to the dark.
And in the basement sink, I scrub my hands until they are sore.
That sink is rusted brown from age and neglect,
And the smell of mold is holding tight to the air.
But, the color that comes clean from me
Makes the most vibrant rainbow you have ever seen,
As if my failures have brought the sun into this room with no windows.
 - Ben Falandays, Salesianum School, Class of 2009, DE.
 
“Try Not to Kill Your Friends”
               My knock on the door is fleeting; it’s opened even before the second rap.  You rush me in through a cloud of overpriced shit.  Who do you think you are.
               ‘There’s brie in the fridge, but don’t eat it.  The crackers in the cupboard are off limits, too.’
               Kay.
               You push open the door with your hip, hands full of crap you’ll never need (a plethora of buttons and beeps), in a vague attempt at emulating (y)our mother’s hurried efficiency.  ‘Numbers’re on the fridge,’ you called.
               What the hell numbers could you, my 19-year-old-subordinate need, anyway?
               After the muffled slam of the door I check.  911, an exterminator.
               Thanks.
  - Katie Boyle, Central High School, Class of 2008, PA.
“Map”

Life is measured in paces.
Thirty paces and you dig.
As children, we meet the soft edges—
split edged and browned over the stove—
of a treasure map.
And the house is no longer
a house. the door bell is a signal
to launch the cannon balls.
The flight of stairs warps
into a passage way to the hull.
The neighbors are Bluebeard,
Blackbeard, Redbeard etc.
The backyard is landed upon,
an island in its own respect.
And the map is drawn from our pocket
like a snake suffocated in sand.
Thirty paces and you dig.
A home is not so
until it is a pirate ship.
It is when I sit alone in my kitchen,
writing poems on a hard, cool table,
that I thank the gods and fishes
that we may make our own maps.
Then comes the image of Grandma’s face
as she learns the X was atop her azaleas.

- Sean Zhuraw, High School for the Creative and Performing Arts, Class of 2008, PA.

 

“Weak”

You looked like a paper bag
Crinkled and crumpled and quivering
But so pale
Lack of sunlight had made your skin
Almost translucent
I could see your veins
Tiny canals under your fragile skin
I wanted to reach out
And touch you
But it was like you were
Poorly blown glass
And would fracture
Skeletal
With hollowed cheeks
Ribs poking out
They looked like they would burst
Through your taut skin any second
I was afraid for you to move
Slowly
Your head turned to look at me
I was expecting to hear a creak
Like un-oiled hinges
Rusting
Through your curtain of straw hair
I could see your eyes
Silvery
Crushed pearls and smoke
They looked vacant
Yet pleading
Praying you wouldn’t break
I inched closer
And reached
It seemed like a tremendous effort
Was needed to raise your arm
Grasp my hand
A marionette on strings
You are safe

- Sara Group, Central High School, Class of 2010, PA