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.




 


 
Jul 09

red brick ribcage

looking through windows lit by yellow light from dusty
bulbs inside as dinner ensues:

a table.
five chairs. 
a man. three children. a woman. or just the empty outline of one. 

the peeling wallpaper is saturated with the ghosts that accumulate in a place after a century of standing still. 

who will wake them up to dance when family has fled and rot replaces the rhythm of life inside of you?
 
Jul 09
poem 2 comments challenge: General

Your Heart

Your heart is,
so quick to,
dry up,
crack,
forget,
like this ink.
Jul 08

Footnote


To her
I was nothing more than a 
conquest
a new muse 
to paint 
and then remove along
with the spring cleaning. 

To her
I was nothing but a breathing flaw,
her calloused hands the answer 
to fix me

My tears were the footnotes no
one ever
cared to read. 
Jul 06

Too Long Ago


Today, on your yellow bike, 
(the one that refuses to turn exactly left) 
you passed the ocean.

It was light blue
and foaming at the edges 
and reminded you of the days
on the ocean with the summer friend
you had made when
you were younger.

He was quiet and smiled a lot.

You pulled over and examined the waves
cresting
and remembered how he
had cried
when you left.

You remembered how many stories
he held inside of him.

Those stories were more of him
than you ever had before.

You remembered the day in the rowboat
with soggy sandwiches and rain. 

And all that lost laughter.

It made you smile again. 

Where was he now?
Did he remember you?
Did you even remember him? 


 
Jul 06
nolans's picture

Ice Cream Disaster

It's one of the hottest days of summer we have had. The sweat is dripping down my neck and soaking my shirt. But it's okay because I'm next in line to get an ice cold dillicous creamy. It's a long line, I have been waiting for over five minuets and can't wait to take my ice cream into the shade and cool off. I peek over the lady infront of me's shoulder to see what is taking so long and then I see it. She is taking penny by penny out of her purse. With each clank on the counter the employee adds one number. They're at fifty five and the ice cream is two dollars and thirty cents just for a small. I dont know what to do, with each number they count the sun beats down on me twice as hard. I can't do this any longer, I need my ice cream!
 
Jul 02

A Year Of Missing Seasons

On hot days,
when the sun is bright,
the skies are clear,
and the air is sticky,
I would sit in front of the fan,
wishing it was autumn.

On chilly evenings,
when the air is crisp,
the leaves are golden,
and the trees rustle,
I would stare at the clowdy sky,
wishing it was winter.

On snowy nights,
when every room is cold,
the trees are naked,
and the wind is still,
I would lay awake in blankets,
wishing it was spring.

On bright mornings,
when the flowers bloom,
the rain cools into mud,
and the bees buzz,
I would pick flowers and remember,
that it is now.

 

Jul 01

A stormy night

The humid air dragged in my throat as I scribbled on a notepad, not wanting to forget.

Heat lightning danced in thundering radiance along ridges of shadow.

A bloodened moon rises as a dead husk of bone instead of a bright pool of energy.

Fireflies charge their bioluminescent light in the sprinkle of rain, mirroring the sky.

The fan droned in the window, hardly sharing the cold blowing air with any of the house inhabitants.

As I write this true poem without my second pair of eyes, I can barely see the flashes in the warm ink of night.
Jul 01

No Poet

I write poems but I'm no poet, I'm a teenager.
Wandering through the age when nothing makes sense,
lost in the forest,
hoping beyond hope that my keyboard
will open up one day,
splitting between the "g" and the "h", the "t" and the "y"
prying open like a ribcage, to uncover a map.

So far I have been stuck with keys to type my dreams into, no map to be seen,
but maybe this poem will finally turn out the edges,
laying bare the route carved into my heart, my lungs.
if only I cram a little more of my soul inside. 

I write to reflect, in the desperate hope that
between periods and capitals 
I will extract the answers everyone expects me to know
from my heart to my toes. 

I used to wish I could be an author,
writing sentences woven into gripping stories
piecing together new worlds to gobble the reader up
into new adventures. But these "perfect" stories are planned
Jun 30
emily.hess's picture

2:47 AM

i cannot make my bed, 
i don't make my bed and i do not put away laundry
and i don't wash my hair and i don't check my email, 
i have a list of things i should be doing, 
i have a messy room, a disorganized closet and crowded desktop
and i am afraid. 

i am afraid to complete things i am completely capable of doing, 
like dusting and vacuuming,
or eating and drinking. 

if i finish the list i am afraid of the other one.

i cannot feel accompanied surrounded by people who care, 
i don't feel content and i do not let go of the idea of how perfect a person could be. 
i don't think rationally, or logically and i don't respond to texts, 
i have a list of things i should be doing, but am not completely capable of
like feeling full but not naseuous and being comfortable with silence. 

so i procrastinate. 

i avoid the simple in order to never acknowledge the impossible, 
Jun 27
poem 4 comments challenge: Random
iski23's picture

Night Light

The world is a shadow hidden amoung the quiet
Stars guide us around the dark
They are the light we look to see
Through the dark we look up to the unusaul advice they give

The moon switches time, opens up a new vision for us to see
Gives us a chance to rest
As we doze the sky swaps from night to a dewy morning

Pastel colors rain from the sky creating a picture melting into the morning sunrise
Between the mountains a vehicle passes into the light
The fog rises up on the cow pasture
 

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