Seven Hills Review - Spring 2002 - smell of garbage (poems of ex-love)

To Get Here

It was the snowflakes on eyelashes

The moon warming my back

And the blue ethereal glow that always came when sitting under leaved trees with you

The world is seen in only gray

It is either one thing or another

Two extremes

That attack all at once

Cheap molded plastic

Tight woven upholstery

Blaring radio

I was gone

Blazing a trail down the lane

Burning to ashes

Things I wanted to see later

(need nostalgia)

I was unrestrained

The mahogany colored brush

Is in my hand

There is lots of paint left

And my palate is full

My strokes are sure

This time I do not hesitate

It is time

I am prepared

And strong and healed

Sadly my life ended the day yours started

I was left behind

Choking on the dust as you ran

Then I collapsed

And shed years worth of tears

I picked up

Brushed off your dust

And walked on

years went by

grew into my potential

and one day got into the car

the brush dances on its canvas

mainly blue

that is the color I remember most

and many nights

sitting in darkened forests

with blue leaves

and a warm moon

I waited years to paint this

the image I tucked sage back in my head

with a final swipe

I stare at the ghosts that haunted me

the past I tired to burn

but all that was there

sitting on the frame

is a brown day

and two people walking away

Lynn, Grade 11
Ursuline Academy

You probably don't think of me much anymore. Hell, you probably barely even remember me. I imagine my face is as easy for you to recall as the fourteenth year of your existence (yet another thing you used time and substance to forget).

To refresh you, I will say that I was the girl like a dying light bulb, the one who flickered on and off but was, ultimately, fading out. I was the girl with the mop of colours found only on The Muppet Show draped over her scalp, and I used words like "soy" and "jelly" and "walrus" to describe my feelings. I disguised myself in thrift store quality textures and second-hand emotion; it was your mission and hobby to use your hands and words to undress me.

I remember the game we played, the sewing game. I remember your feeble attempts to embroider a heart on my sleeve, your tries to sew your image on the fabric in my chest. And I-I always tried in vain to slip social awareness and a sense of common courtesy into the hem of your consciousness. That stupid nazi propaganda you still utilized, that "liberal" bias you had that closed you off to everyone else's ideas, that all-consuming pride that overshadowed all your best qualities-I wanted to cut it all out and toss it in a wastebasket. It was a good game despite the fact neither of us was successful at it. The only thing either of us was any good at was using the needles within our mouths to bind our souls together.

When circumstance caused the patchwork creation that was you and I to tear, I think you left with some of my scraps still attached to yours.

It's only 3:15's whisper that I can hear echoes of myself. The light lent to me by the moon illuminates the definitions of my existence-a matchbook here, feelings inscribed in faded ink there, all-encompassing clutter. Only in these things do I see that I'm still here, that I survived tasting the fruit of knowledge, that I am exiled but still going-even on empty. Parts of me still rearrange themselves to allow your presence, though. I know your name escapes my mouth tainted with an acidic aroma and shrouded in layers of flame, but look: that's your photo on my desk.

Miko, Grade 10
Shilling School

Angel Eyes

Salted tears of disappointment

Years of tragedy

Months of deception

Eyes

Eyes of the fallen angel

Innocent

Trusting

Crushed like dreams

A castle of the imagination

To dust

To sand

How quickly weight falls upon one's

Heart

How quickly one's will fails

Naked but oblivious

True transformation

Felt with the soul

Seen with the heart

Promise is not reality

Why

Why sit

Why listen

Crash in

Crash out

Black waves of high tide

Yet listening drowns in the affliction of

fear

Yet salted oceans of disappointment

shatter against covetous cliffs of

stone

Years of tragedy

Months of deception

An offended spirit

A wounded heart

Vanquished, disgraced

Wretched, forlorn

You drown in the high tide of sorrow

and fear

Why

Why kill dreams

For forgiveness

For understanding

For crystal tides of joy

Why

To drown in the waves

To revel and delight

Worth the high

Worth the excitement

Eyes

Eyes of the risen angel

Time without tragedy

Why

Why care

Why comply

For forgiveness

Pure tides

Set suns

For understanding

For time

For the beauty of love

All love transcending

For eyes

Eyes of the triumphant angel

Ingenuous eyes

Eyes without tragedy

Eyes without deception

Angel eyes.

Emily, Grade 8
Cardinal Pacelli School

Wither in the Rain

I found the roses in the trash

Can't say if you'd seen them yet,

Because I forget,

If I gave you trash on a platter,

But it does not matter,

Since you snatched your forty pieces of silver,

And left me to wither in the rain,

Like watching a rose decompose,

And you tell me not to be afraid.

You betrayed me with a kiss,

With an open heart to shelter me from pain,

But it was all for your selfish gain,

And you could've told me the rules to your repulsive game,

I'd start to count the stars but stop when I saw yours,

You were the brightest star in the sky,

And I'd only count you,

But now I count every raindrop,

And every raindrop reminds me of you.

After all, you left me to wither in this rain

(To decompose like a forgotten rose.)

M. Godfrey, Grade 12
CHCA

Garbage Casserole

1 teaspoon molasses

I feel like a riddle you forgot to solve, you sowed

your feverish seeds in my soiled

heart and walked away before you could reap.

3 tablespoons mold

My soul if filled with such strange thoughts:

shoots of green sprout everywhere, unpruned and unchecked, while you sit in the porch with a lemonade and your best friend, whispering in the azaleas. Does your mother know

you're out here, dressed like this?

2 cups minced emotions

...the hedges and the shrubberies offer me their consolation.

I've overrun the garden walls, I am as poisonous as ivy and as stupidly blind as ivy.

1 passion, finely crushed

I am a puzzle without an answer still waiting to be finished.

How beautiful you become as I grow, dying!

I am wilder than a thistle and more savage.

Instructions: stir ingredients and let simmer.

My roots found in your lack of affection - my leaves grow broad and brutish-

the lovely cold sap, slowly congealing, petrifies my heart-

(sigh)

Ben, Grade 12
Loveland High School

The Glance

His eyes star straight through me

Undress me

my lies

I look away

Hide my own eyes in his shoulder

The sparkles that once shined them have since slipped away

He pulls away to look again

To strip off my feelings

Leaving them lying in a heap below me

I am naked

bare

unshielded

unguarded

He knows it all

Sees it all

The shame he feels for me

Rocks me back and forth like a rock and roll song

And I reach for the radio dial

to drown out the screaming silence

He catches my hand

Slams me all the way to my soul

I shudder

scream

fall apart

inside my heart withers

like a frail flower in the fall

beaten, betrayed by the Sun

My shoulders hunch

Breathing screeches to a halt in my lungs

I stare at my hands

dirty

And he stares at me

I slowly

die

fade

away

inside

Pray the disease

takes me

that my heart breaks quickly

It won't

I know

I will suffer

Alone

I will slip away

stories untold

his hands gripping mine on the dial

eyes glaring at my pathetic figure

I feel it

that unbearable hatred

I die

clothes on the floor

my nakedness apparent

Hand on the dial, still within his

Waiting for the eternal rocking of the rock and roll song

My heart shattered

like a dropped

smashed

forgotten

Flowerpot

Elyse, Grade 11
Indian Hill High School