YWP Content Published in Newspapers



Young Writers Project is most grateful to its eight newspaper partners who publish your work on a regular basis. Weekly: Burlington Free Press and The Valley News. Monthly: St. Albans Messenger, Brattleboro Reformer, Rutland Herald (and Reader), Times Argus (and Extra), Bradford Journal Opinion and Charlotte News.

The papers have a combined circulation of nearly 75,000 and the papers are read by well over 150,000 people.

YWP staff, volunteers and Community Leaders from this site help select work.  If you'd like to help with this process, contact Susan Reid.




 


 
Aug 02
sophie.d's picture

Cocoon

She burrowed nimble fingers
into the soil's depths.

Brown lines traced themselves 
upon her short cut nails
And cool brownie crumbs
danced in her palms.

She lifted her hands
as one would lift the world:
carefully, powerfully,
backed by the sky's love.

Soil lay in the cocoon 
of her hands.

She rolled her eyes back
as if trying to look inside herself
for something of interest...

Aha. 
And so the tongue wiggling began. 

With a vehement spit
A black watermelon seed
plunked down onto the soil.

She wiggled her hands a bit
to blanket the seed
And then stood still

waiting for the rain. 



 
Aug 01
bayleer05's picture

The Woods

Evan and his group of friends were walking over to the baseball field when he hears something coming from in the woods. He stops and walks towards the edge of the woods. He can hear whispering and feet crunching on the leaves.

    “Evan, you comin’?” Asked one of his friends Charlie.
Jul 29
mythicalquill's picture

Photography

While choosing which photos to showcase at my photography camp, I decided to split them into four categories—Photos that included flowers, fences, windows, or photographers. Originally, these “themes” were slightly broader (nature, ‘barriers,’ buildings, and people), but I chose not to display four of the images I had printed out in order to keep the categories more contained. Many of my photos play with depth of field, blurring some areas of the scene while keeping others in focus. In the future, I’d like to play around with different shutter speeds, photographing things in motion. I enjoy photography because it allows me to capture unnoticed or unappreciated details in the world around me, from the unusual slant of a dock to a bee alighting on a flower.
 
Jul 29
Zane Telesford's picture

It’s Ok to be Sad


The dusk comes for all of us,
Do not bother running, 
Because it will take you regardless, 
And the best things do happen in the dark

Roam calmly through the shadow,
Feel your way around the night sky,
And surely you will find another one, 
Lost in the haze of their own heartache

Find their hand, and hold it in yours,
Give them a squeeze, 
Run your thumb along the backside of their palm,
Draw them into willing embrace and finally,
Without fail, without hesitation,
The two of you will emit a glow potent enough to pierce the black

Weep, fall to your knees
Accept the darkness that eats away at your heart,
For we are all one in our sorrow, 
And our grief is universal.
 
Jul 29

Willow Tree

I sit beneath this willow tree,
praying.
Praying that one day,
I will have the strength and courage,
to live as long as this willow tree.
The cracks in its bark
resemble scars on my skin.
We have been through so much,
and I'm sure we both know
that there is so much more to be done;
to,
and by us.
 
Jul 28

Dublin

Seagulls cry for the ocean,
wings flapping,
bodies soaring,
through the smokey,
salty air.
A rare bit of sunlight,
bursting through the windows,
spilling,
like a stream,
flooding its banks.
My pen
tapping on the coffee cup
cutting through the
distant voices
of the cafe,
and the silence of our table.
I’ve never felt
lonely like this before.
in a room full of
half-strangers
I remember:
I chose to be here.
My stomach is
a pit of nerves,
my head pounding
a single thought
reverberating:
maybe this was a mistake.
But as I panic,
the flowers in the window box
drift lazily in the breeze.
the sun shines.
The world
isn’t on fire.
And I know it’s not a mistake.

Jul 27

For You

To the tiresome eyes and worried faces,
stuffed together in the smallest of places. 
To the flowers that grow around our feet,
and the contemplating heads admitting defeat. 
To the beautiful people who live in this world,
and the tapping of fingers and hair being twirled. 
To the ones who may worry about their complexion,
and the ones who don’t care that much for affection. 
To the brave civilians and the ones who are fighting,
and the ones who are bored that make things exciting. 
To the ones who show up when others won’t,
this poem’s for you and the ones who don’t. 
 
Jul 26

i chose money over my father and i don't regret it


because of what I bought.

love is a currancy i hesitate to spend.

i have $483 dollars of non-refundable
deposits of memories.
deflation is inevitable.

my love was only worth
5 calls
and 
an email.

they taught me macro-econmics in school
but i think he only learned
micro.

he was expensive.

love was the only payment i knew before
he started asking for another.

dirty money

that's what he threw at me.
resentment,
guilt,
anger,

anything to keep me buying.

my debit cards have a limit
and i think he found mine.

i chose money over my father and i don't regret it
because i spent it on my
mother
my
sister
my
friend
my
self.

i chose money over my father

and i am 

all the richer now.
Jul 24
g_rob02's picture

A Poem For Nature

I'm supposed to write a poem for nature, but I don't know where to begin.
How am I supposed to focus when there's a dogfight commencing over my head, insects bombarding my brain with bombs of blissless buzzing.
I can't write a poem for nature.
Not with these cars. These cars that create an artificial breeze that blows the grass, making it dance like kids in a middle school gymnasium. Swaying to the silent sound of a soft song. Thinking they're old, not living for long.
        I can’t write a poem for nature.
Not with this wind. It moves my page in frustrating, ways sending me spiraling fast down a vast fissure of nostalgia. Remembrance of summer rocking chairs, and skipping stones.
        I can’t write a poem for nature.

    I'm sorry
I just can’t.

 

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