Under the influence of inspiration, a fleeting thought enters and exits the mind, soundlessly traveling past due time. The remnants of unborn speech reside here:

When stars collide you and I will align

Under the dark pitter-patter of infinite time.

We'll use the negative space as our magic carpet ride

And redeem lost time for a moment of quixotic pride.

But the Babylon Candle’s light runs low.

Ineffective emotions neither die nor grow.

Let me carry you home, where these dreams will rest.

And sing to your soul a song I confess,

Is the beat of our hearts; sweet on the ears yet hard on the truth

An elephant melody once heard from our youth.

Something about heroes, we’ll dance to the reprise,

And continue living with this interminable disease.

The train pulls out, tugging its load

From the sorry station, a dust-stained

Hub of passengers, hustling headlong

To the platform, choosing a pleasant

Shared compartment, containing bunks

Stacked three tall, six in total.

A half-dozen men, desiring only to doze,

Stare sleepily around, strangers all.

They survey the scene, silently deciding

Who will rest where, willing the tallest

To straddle the ladder. Let his lanky legs

Hang over, heedless of heights.

Finally the first moves; he firmly claims

The second bunk, briefcase set on the sheets.

The others follow, flinging their forms,

Claiming their corners. The compartment

Is warmed by a welcoming – although weary –

Traveling kinship, comrades for a night.

The tall one sings, someone strums a guitar;

Songs fill the cabin, flooding the freezing night.

Then a bang on the wall: a bothered neighbor

Stills the band. They burrow into silence,

Stifling smiles as their thoughts shift

To the unmade beds. Bare mattresses bend

Under their weight as weary men

Clamber into the cots, comforted by

The rocking of the train, a rhythmic cradle.

The last man in bed blows out the lamp.

Six men sigh, studying with sleepy gazes

The shadows darting across the swaying ceiling.

What if... what if we had a rasher of you out there creating video poems? This is a wonderful poem, by a high schooler in Newton, MA, but imagine what you could do... gg

To whom it may concern 

i'll take my final breath

inhale a sense of madness

exhale a sense of death

as I take my final breath

of death I will learn

i'll tell about it to 

whom it may concern. 

One dandelion seed touches down,

Drifting through dreary skies,

Helping you believe

That this simplifies your life;

Because you choose to have faith

That the tiny things will solve

Those scary silhouettes of

Vague problems, the ones

That are just too hard to fix.

Two pedal s gone,

You’ve got three to left,

And you know that you’ve set it up so

That love me not is not the last one to go.

But four will be the number

Of leaves you’ll find on this clover,

So keep it with you forever,

For you know karma

Will never forget that

Five petal flower

I remember the night Creme gave birth so well. I had been checking on her all day. I kept pacing the barnyard, kicking the dirt floor. It was Creme's first time giving birth and I was nervous. I couldn't wait for it to be over so I could stop worrying.

At 7:30 p.m. her waterbag broke and she wasn't progressing. If a birth is going well, a lamb presents with front legs and head forward and is born shortly afterward. This lamb's nose appeared with its tongue hanging out. The legs were pulled back which made the shoulders block the cervix.

I had been waiting for this day a long time. I had decided I wanted to assist. The long plastic glove crackled as I put it on my right hand. My dad squirted a blue lubricant known as "Superlube" onto the glove. Shakily and slowly, I inched forward and knelt to put my hand into Creme's birth canal. It felt like lava, so hot and wet. I could feel the lamb's head and chin. I was so anxious, my eyes were stinging. I could see the lamb's tongue was starting to turn blue and knew the situation was becoming very serious. I asked my dad to take over because he has been assisting ewes give birth for many years. My mom held Creme as my dad put on a glove and lube and reached in. Dad hooked one leg and brought it forward, thinking it would be enough to pull the lamb out, but the lamb was really stuck. The shoulders were too broad. Read more »

Congratulations to the six winners of the YWP Farm Project writing challenge!

Seventy-seven young writers from across Vermont responded to the challenge to write about farms and food and six winners were selected by our judges. The Vermont Community Foundation, sponsor of the challenge, is awarding each writer $50 with a matching $50 donation to a Vermont farm or food nonprofit of the writer's choice.

Congratulations to:

David Amouretti, Grade 5, Thomas Fleming School, Essex Junction

Callista Bushee, Grade 8, Home School, East Wallingford

Kelsey Eddy, Grade 9, Mill River High School

Saskia Kiely, Grade 7, Vergennes Union High School

Carley Malloy, Grade 7, Thetford Academy

Eva Rocheleau, Grade 8, Williston Central School

Read the winning submissions!

YWP receives many exceptional photos from students around the state. One of the most spirited, prolific and wide-ranging photographers we have come across is Kevin Huang, a freshman at Burlington High School. See his photos... Read more »

Leaving the Attic

The small Colorado town faded to dust, an old picture filed away in an attic in a cardboard box. A rented Ford Explorer passed by it without a thought, as many others had done before. The Explorer rattled down the dirt road, slipping through a National Park Service checkpoint. The words of the park ranger who stood there would follow it all the way to the top. 

“Welcome to Mesa Verde.” 

The car followed the invisible tire tracks of hundreds of others who had traveled this land. It wound around the mesa, following the coils of the steep dirt path. Climbing the road like a spiral staircase, its passengers gazed at the tiny town below. Buildings that you could balance on your fingertip, cars that could easily fit inside a thimble, people you needed a microscope to see. The car continued to twist around the tower like a wind-up toy, alone in the peaceful calm of rural Colorado.  Read more »

I never understood running,the sport, I mean. What’s the point? It’s not like other sports. Other sports make sense. Sports with goals and rules and points.But I guess that’s what people love about running. There’s no rules, no limits, no restrictions. I guess people like me are just so used to having some guidelines in their life, they don’t understand why anyone would live any other way. Read more »

Groups of girls, whispering lies.

I hate the way they generalize.

She’s the new girl, shy and weak.

I don’t think she even speaks. Read more »

Dreamer.wav

You appeared several times Read more »

Dear bully, Read more »

Dear Bully,

Do you remember me? It was a long time ago, almost to long to count. I was not your first victim, but not your last either.  I was a small kid, with a strong body but a weak mind. You singled me out on lunch; I was sitting alone as I am now and preceded to throw ever insult you could think at me, your stupid friends laughing and cheering as you walked away. I remember them still, like a scar that never fully disappeared. Retard, fag, loser, I remember. I still have the marks on face from being slammed into my locker by a bunch of your stupid friends.  I still look you up to see what happened after seventh grade when you left. Where you went, who was your next victim. I think I found you living in Louisiana, in a small town, captain of the football team. I still hope you remember me, because out of everything in my life, you changed me the most, whether for better or for worse. You taught me that the world is not all warm and happy and that there is a underside to every stone. So, for better or for worse, I thank you. Life won't have been the same without you.

J.L.B