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.




 


 
Sep 15

BestFriend

Today you texted me.
I missed you.

Did you miss me as much?
You asked, “what happened to us?”
and I smiled, because you made it sound like
we were boyfriend and girlfriend.
I said something like, “I don’t know. I tried.”
I’m still waiting on a reply.

You were my best friend.
Do you remember the time
we got pringles and twix
and ate and watched movies
and we danced around my room
and talked and talked
and giggled our hearts out
and I felt like I had the bestest friend in the whole world.

We traded our scrunchies:
my pink velvet
for your black matte.

And we met at summer camp!
Of all the places,
summer camp.
We were the perfect best friends there had ever been.
We were invincible.

But I guess things can’t always last forever.

 
Sep 14

Still water--FICTION

I slip my shoes off and sit down, almost falling onto the old wooden dock. I couldn't control my self. I didn't know what to do. I needed to get out, I needed to be alone now. As I press my feet into the calm bath-like water I can immediately feel my emotions raging again. What am I going to do, who is going to watch my back not that he's gone? I can't keep running if I have nothing to run from, right? What will I do when I have to walk down that aisle but he won't be there every step of the way? I close my fist almost as a reflex. I want to run and hide and never come back to this stupid town ever again. I can't stay here. 
Sep 12
Icarus Blackmore's picture

Language (words)

I love language.
the way it sounds,
the way words
roll off the tongue.

Its roots stretch back,
through time
to that first, single,
unknown, utterance.

Yet still it grows,
branches twisting 
and turning.
They sprawl off
into the unknown
with words growing
like leaves,
every one there
because it was needed.

because there was some
thought, or emotion
so complex,
that all the words
that had come before
could not express it.

In this way language grows. 
Some new shoot of life
Or another original utterance
emerges and changes.
Meanings blossom
then fade
until the flower wilts,
forgotten by time.

Yet still,
the tree stretches,
back, back to the beginning
and that very first,
unknown sound. 

 
Sep 12
poem 0 comments challenge: General
alexmistkowski's picture

Writing

When I was young I heard many things about writing
But what I was told the most
Was that writing is the most wonderful thing
That writing saves lives
And I never understood
What power words on paper hold
The power within a few words
Scrawled in messy pen marks
Across a faded off-white paper
Until one day
The day I picked up a pencil 
The day I wrote
And wrote
And wrote
Spilling my heart across the blank sheet before me 
Releasing everything I've held in my head
And suddenly I know 
The power of words
 
Sep 12

On the Dock

I wish I could fly away.
                 Far, far, away.

Away from the hurt, and the pain.
                Away from the give, but never the gain.

Along the border I would walk
               The border of love and hate

The place I call home nevermore.
               The place I was never set free.

Was I even meant to be?
               What if I'm a mistake?

If I can't spread my wings,
               If I can't fly,

What gives me the reason,
             Not to die?


Because here.
On the dock.
 

I.    Am.     Free.

 
Sep 11

Verbs

In Spanish, 
We change the verbs, 
Action words, that is, 
Because the word has to match the person. 
But doesn't that make them adjectives? 

See, language is only something
Humans created. 
Like socks, 
And microwaves. 
Although, 
We can express ourselves
Just fine
Through looks, 
And stares, 
And movement. 

Do we overcomplicate things
When we use language, 
With it's grammer
And sentance structure? 

Or do we overcomplicate our analysis
Of how people look, 
Stare, 
And move.
Is that why we created
Language
In the first place?  

Maybe we need to stop 
Matching 
The assumptions,
With the people, 
And let them, 
Change their verbs. 
 
Sep 09

A Thirteenth Clock


My sun is lost, the moon will rise,
The wheels of time have rolled away.
The clock has found its tick again
Yet still the leaves and mountains play.

The tap tap tapping of my foot-
It still won’t cease to sound,
The pendulum, the pendulum
Will never fail, rebound, rebound.

Surrounding shells have multiplied 
But these, they seem to be alive.
Still they don’t hear the melody,
So really how can they survive?

The clock has thirteen numbers now.
The wheels of time must face defeat.
Though leaves and mountains hug the wind,
The sun and moon may never meet.
Sep 09

His Type of Travel



You remember his hands
on your back, flying 
over you 

Laughing 
Upside-down 
Everywhere

It reminds you of airplanes,
he reminds you of the wings 

You remember his hands
holding yours 

neck
arms
legs 
wrist 
in your hair

You're gaining altitude 
and never want to land. 
He'll never let you. 


 
Sep 09

dancing with the sun

6:37 PM.
early september.

follow me,
called the sun.

and so we did.

up and over the hill,
bike wheels on dirt road
cool breeze in loose hair
the world on fire.

an open field
tinted by the filter of late summer. 

we run and spin and smile and talk and sing and laugh and live.

the world is broken.
it's battered and bloody and bruised
damanged and disfigured and distressed.

but it's also this,
whole and joyful and jubilant. 

we're alive.

and so
we dance with the sun. 

8:24 PM
early september.

it will get better,
whispers the sun.

we forget we ever doubted otherwise. 
Sep 09
Mackenzie 101's picture

The Time Alone

I grab my keys and head straight to the car. As I rev the engine, I take off without a trace. I head down to the docks, it's sunset, and all is calm. All that can be heard is the soft whisper echoing inside my brain. I just needed to take a second to embrace what was happening. I just need the sound of silence running through my veins. I take a brief moment and watch as the light from the sun starts to fade away, and the darkness of the quiet night comes into play. It was a beautiful sunset, and a perfect night to be alone. With the day behind me, and the deep blue water rippling in front of me, I decided to take a dip. Without a second to even think about it, my feet hit the water, and when I come up for air, it’s all gone. The taunting memory, the endless time, and the pure moment is all in the past, and for once, I get to be ok with that.
 

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