YWP Content Published in Newspapers

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

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Jul 18


Sometimes I forget
That my vases,
Porcelain and decorated with intricate cerulean details,
The result of years of hard work and sweat,
The ones that are now shattered, jagged, and ruined,
Scattered on the marble floor in shards,
Appear merely as wooden blocks to the passersby.

To them, it was once a sturdy tower
And it will be again, as if time had waited.

To them, my problems appear small and ordinary,
Easily fixable.

I wish I had known this earlier.

(author's note: basically the previous poem, but with some edits and also I recorded me reading it.)

Jul 13

they/them: The Way They Speak

they speak in poetry.
their first word was "revolution";
can you believe it?
each sentence they speak—
passionate sonnets,
each word has to be soaked
in intellectual meaning
(they're also very smart too).
they also speak in couplets
two line of a verse that rhyme;
sarcasm, maybe.
haikus are a whole other language,
every time they open their mouth
they make unintentionally beautiful patterns.
each ballad,
and epitaph they utter,
could make a book,
a novel
of poetry.
Jul 12
Mr. What a drag's picture

We're all lost

We're all lost
in this darkness of horror
where light cannot find its way through 
and evil controls.

We're all lost
in this world of negativity
where the positive has been thrown away
like a kite, in the air.

We're all lost
in this new world of technology
where our consciousness is being absorbed day by day
taking reality from us
and bringing the copycat of it.

We're all lost
in the reality of social media
where our mind would go nuts
without them.

We're all lost
in this life of racism
where people just can't accept one another
but keep on and fighting
an endless battle.

We're all lost
in the hands of politics
where our voices don't seem to express
or even ring a bell in their head.
It's just pointless.

But I believe one day we will find our way out 
Jul 12

Needle Point

your words poke my heart
with the precision
of a needle
and I try to swat away
your lies
the way a horse swats away
my body is made of bricks now
I've rebuilt what you broke
there will be no more tears
from these eyes
Jul 12
sophie.d's picture

Little toes

I stood in the sea
little toes mushing into
waterlogged sand. 

Deep gray waves
crisscross crashed 
under the charcoal blanket
woven of clouds.

The tide pulled at my
blue tinted ankle bones
and the wind whipped
a hair cloud around my face.

Raindrops began to pla plunk 
into white tipped water
which blossomed with
overlapping ripples 

Black clouds tightened 
around my head
and the wind edged me
towards the hungry sea.

I wondered
What did the universe do
to anger the earth
into this howling fashion? 

The sand trembled
shaking seaweed out
of its mineral pores
And the water danced
frenzied spirals
through my little toes.

Here I am
in the middle of the sea
catching the sky's sorrow.

Jul 11

A Winter’s Love

Winter is the loneliest time.
Hugs from ragged blankets,
bony hands tucking in bony figures
and pressing chapped lips
to shaky fingers
to press against my own forehead,
sitting in the room
from evening to dawn,
and thinking of something more.
I stared at the street lamp,
its light casting sickly yellow
on pristine snowflakes,
glittering and dancing
before landing softly amongst its own.

We brushed past each other,
gentle phantoms.
Our shoulders met
and we murmured dead apologies,
half hearted and tired.
Your eyes flickered,
and there was a tinge of joy
across your face.
Under the yellow,
you seemed to glow.
I didn’t mind your gaunt cheekbones
and your mop of curls.

There are arms looped around my waist,
thumbs tracing shapes
on pronounced ribs.
Your stubble pokes into the side of my neck.
Jul 11

The Weeping Willow

The wind blows ever,
beneath the weeping willow.
The grass is ever,
beneath the weeping willow.
The strings of life,
beneath the weeping willow.
Such things unseen,
beneath the weeping willow.

The ghosts walk ever,
beneath the weeping willow.
The children sing ever,
beneath the weeping willow.
Love lives ever,
beneath the weeping willow.
Death comes ever,
beneath the weeping willow.

A cast of moving shadows,
in cheer and sorrowful,
in calming hallow winds,
with long quivering eyes.

Nothing stirs ever,
beneath the weeping willow.
All who pass soon,
beneath the weeping willow.

the willow,
Jul 10


for saba

Days pass on like sunsets:
Few drenched and dripping
In beauty,
Most of them cloudy and blank.

Memories fade like jackets:
Details falling and being replaced
Like chipped buttons,
Stitched into something new.

People enter like guest stars on a TV show:
Their presence swept away with disregard
Until they exit stage right, leaving behind whispers of goodbye
And all is normal, as if they never appeared at all.

Food piles up like an avalanche:
Meatloaves and casseroles and cherry pies
As if they are supposed to be miracles, 
And cure.

Prayers are recited like waterfalls:
Each syllable falling over the last
Competing in a hurried dash to reach your ears
And numbly recite verses of angels being lifted to Heaven.

Death watches from behind the bushes:
Jul 09

The Swineherds Tale: A Rebellious Epic

An apology: I just realized that a word in the second stanza was mistyped as a word relating to an individual of a certain religous group, which can sometimes be viewed as disrespectful. I sincerely apoligize for any discomfort or offense this accident may have caused, none was intended. If you as a reader ever find something in my writing offensive, please let me know, as that is far from my intentions. It is important to me to respect all those who respect others. 

Crowned with olive branches,
the tangy scent of oil still clinging to their leaves,
the elders, cloud robed and faced,
gathered in meeting.

One rose,
as if to appoint himself
the central jewel in a tarnished crown,
but was intercepted by a hurled pig’s tail

Which lodged itself
between the twisted ruddy lip framing his mouth.
The storm clouds of Zeus himself