10

We began unharmed.

We soon became influenced by the other people,

they told us what to wear,

they told us what to learn,

they told us what baseball team to root for,

and we were no longer our original selves.

We were concentrate, and they the juice,

combined to make a new flavor.

but we got older.

and we got wiser.

we started to become our own again.

we chose our clothes,

we chose our music, our baseball teams.

but they still told us what to learn.

and we got older still,

out of college

on our own.

we payed our bills,

we payed for our food,

we got jobs.

and some of us went crawling back to mom and dad.

But the rest of us were still growing older,

marrying,

raising children, getting promoted.

When we begin a new stage of the cycle.

Our children;

babies, todlers, infants.

we tell them what to wear,

we tell them what to learn,

we tell them what baseball team to root for.

as they got older and they got smarter,

they started to drift from us.

But they didn't have complete control.

After all their brains were not fully developed and they can't survive this world on their own.

so they got older still and so did I.  So did all of us.

they were finishing college and we were still working.

they paid their own taxes,

they got their own jobs. Read more »

It irks her,

when she sees the ignorance that bloom around her

like May flowers after April showers

as she is stuck in a forever growing field

without a sickle at hand

nor any way to get out of the tangle.

Not even the vexed air that she radiates

can kill off the tangled mass

of ignorant vines

surrounding her and isolating her

from all contact.

A challenge arises

to fight the world

on her own

without any back up
to watch her back.

And from an aerial view

the vines spell out,

“Welcome to life”

It was the hazy almost-drunkenness
The rush of blood to the head
The city noise below us
The way the florescent light hit trunk-like legs with peculiar simplicity

It was the lie of it all
The new, disorienting perspective
The alcohol induced bravery
The humor in all that pain.

It was the outreached hand
The unexpected martyr-like sadness
The reflection in those familiar eyes
The inability to interpret any emotion.

It was that room—
Those close quarters, that cot bed.
The thin walls—whispered words
An incapacitated brain couldn’t interpret.

Maybe it was the late hour—
The drinkers in the street,
The feeling of giving up without a fight
The oppression of a summer breeze.

It was the waiting
The patience of it all
The expectancy, the anticipation
The crushed feeling, the sinking feeling

It was the way everything solid was suddenly slipping away
The desperate grappling to regain ground
The helplessness of being replaced.

It was the defeat in the aftermath
It was the way
Both sides had some sinking impression of a diverging path

It was the silence in it all.

It is Saturday morning 8:00am. I get up and get my bowling close on. I put my bowling ball in the car and head to the bowling ally. I get there it is 9:00 twenty minutes till practice. Dearing practice we can throw as many balls as we want for ten minutes. I take my bowling ball out of my bowling bag. My bowling ball is Black Purple It has a picture of a raptor on the side and it says raptor on the other side of the ball it says motiv on it the logos are green. I bring it down to the lane and put it on the ball return. I get my bowling shoes on and wait for practice to start. The lanes come on you can start practice now. I throw one ball on each lane I get a strike both times so I just wait for practice to be over. Read more »

It is a nice, warm sunny day in Vermont, 75 degrees. What a nice day to go swimming; for some of us that is a temp you would want to go swimming since it is so hot and you just want to cool off. But for what we will be doing we want it to be hot, the hotter the better. When the tires are hot they grip the track better which makes you handle the car better. This is my first race at ThunderRoad, it is the first weekend in May and I am only 16 years old. We got home from getting parts for the car and we put on some final touches of paint before we went to the track. Dad and I have to check in and pay for our pit passes. Nick Sweet walks by and I get even more excited to race. Nick Sweet won a championship in 2010 and won two other big races that year. He is such a good driver; especially at working his way up through the pack of cars. I would love to be able to focus like he does.  Read more »

Hey everyone.

Can you hear me?

Listen up please, because I want to ask you something. I want to make you think, even just a little. If you disregard this, fine. But I hope someone can hear me. Here goes nothing…

          When was the last time you made someone smile? Not a funny joke you told, not a superficial artificial fake laugh-cause-they-are grin, but really smile. Made someone's heart so happy that it just brimmed up too fast and spilled across their face? Gave someone something they really needed: food, help, a friend?

         When was the last time you smiled? Why is it all too often too long ago to remember? Why don't more people get up the nerve to be different and help someone? Not because it's cool, not because it's fun, and certainly not because it's easy. So many people would tell you they'd love to volunteer, but given the opportunity, let it slip; forget; just flat out say no thanks. Read more »

Next to a dumpster smelling the putrid air spilling out of the pale green bin, but that's where the food is. Munching on a moldy bagel dreaming of steamy bread, butter sliding on top, sinking into the pores of the cooked dough. Taking a bite snapping back to reality savoring the sweet vision. Cling, cling, as a kind old man drops pennies into an empty jar placed close to my side that reads, “hungry lonely but caring”.  I promised I would be great. I'm running out of time. Great isn't sitting by an old dumpster or collecting pennies from old men.  Abe Lincoln smiling on a penny, but not making any difference in my life. A penny is not worth anything, nothing, useless, mocking. They only work in large numbers, which I don't have. Large is only a hopeless dream, in reality that is unattainable now. Stars above glimmer through light pollution.  People always ruin the prettiest things in life, even life itself. Darkness takes over and fills my world until no stars appear; nor, tiny worthless pennies, just the consuming color of black. It exists with no mercy.

 do i want to talk about it,
 they ask, and if i don't
 they sit me down in front of
 some person i've never even met
 and expect me to pour out
 my feelings to her.
 um, hello?
 a degree in psychology
 doesn't make her
 my best friend.
 and how am i supposed
 to talk about it
 when there are no words?
 the words are gone.
 he took them with him
 when he left.
 they want me to move past it.
 go on with your life,
 get over it.
 how am i supposed to do that?
 how am i supposed to say goodbye?
 it's like a book
 that stops in the middle of the story.
 no ending.
 he left me hanging with nothing to hold onto.
 not even goodbye.

     Do you still remember that Sunday last June? I do. I remember the breeze playing with my hair and how the shadows moved as the hours passed by. I remember the exact shade of baby blue painted across the sky, and I remember the daisies.

     The field was full of them, wildflowers, and I had told you my favorite flower was the daisy, so you picked me a bouquet. They were lovely.

     We sat and talked in the grass. I lamented that I never learned to make a daisy chain, and you replied that you did. You said you could teach me. My eyes watched your fingers weave the stems together while my own fingers delicately plucked the pale petals from a few flowers.

     He loves me, he loves me not.

     He loves me, he loves me not.

     He loves me.

     I really believed it too. As you placed the completed ring on my head, sitting in the grass, in the sun, on a warm Sunday in June, I believed it. But the hours dragged on until they became days, and the daisies began to wilt. Days became weeks, and the flowers began to die. Weeks turned into Summer months, and the calls had all stopped; the petals had all fallen.

     He loves me, he loves me not.

     He loves me, he loves me not.

     He loves me?

     He loves me not.

Just before my basketball game starts, I make note of everything I've learned since starting this sport.  I think about jumping, dribbling, passing, shooting, everything.  Everything that I've learned is about to be inputted into this game.  My skill will be tested against everyone else that is on the court.   

I look at the other team.  There is a tall guy, most likely the one who will jump for the ball for possession first.  A short guy, most likely the point guard.  While he is warming up with the ball, he looks strong with his dribbling.  The ref looks bored, but ready to start the game.  He calls the captains over and talks to them about the values of sportsmanship and how only captains can talk to the refs, typical things discussed before a game.

I see the ball in the ref's hands, smell the freshly cleaned gym floor, hear the crowd's anxious murmurs.  I'm excited to play and will try my hardest, like I do with every game I play in.  My coach tells me that I will be jumping for possession at the start of the game.  I love to start in games.  The crowd is cheering you on, people are looking at you, and you are the center of attention for that split second. 

As a team, we walk out onto the court as does the other team.  While walking out, I look for my parents in the crowd.  I see them, and we make eye contact.  I give them an excited smile and they return it with a nervous grin. (They are nervous about me getting hurt) I walk to the center of the court and the other guy who is jumping for the ball does, too.  We shake hands and get in the proper positions to jump.  The ref walks up to us and blows his whistle.  He holds the ball in front of us and tosses it up in the air.  The game starts with the ball in our point guard's hands.

Just before my basketball game starts, I make note of everything I've learned since starting this sport.  I think about jumping, dribbling, passing, shooting, everything.  Everything that I've learned is about to be inputted into this game.  My skill will be tested against everyone else that is on the court.   

I look at the other team.  There is a tall guy, most likely the one who will jump for the ball for possession first.  A short guy, most likely the point guard.  While he is warming up with the ball, he looks strong with his dribbling.  The ref looks bored, but ready to start the game.  He calls the captains over and talks to them about the values of sportsmanship and how only captains can talk to the refs, typical things discussed before a game.

I see the ball in the ref's hands, smell the freshly cleaned gym floor, hear the crowd's anxious murmurs.  I'm excited to play and will try my hardest, like I do with every game I play in.  My coach tells me that I will be jumping for possession at the start of the game.  I love to start in games.  The crowd is cheering you on, people are looking at you, and you are the center of attention for that split second. 

As a team, we walk out onto the court as does the other team.  While walking out, I look for my parents in the crowd.  I see them, and we make eye contact.  I give them an excited smile and they return it with a nervous grin. (They are nervous about me getting hurt) I walk to the center of the court and the other guy who is jumping for the ball does, too.  We shake hands and get in the proper positions to jump.  The ref walks up to us and blows his whistle.  He holds the ball in front of us and tosses it up in the air.  The game starts with the ball in our point guard's hands.

Just the thought makes my
eyes run until they’re dry
A day without his love
A moment without his embrace
I don’t want him to go
I know he’ll come back
He has to.
He will right?
The perfect fit of my hand in his
is something I know I will miss!

Wrongs and secrets left unspoken
Old promises are more than broken
Such betrayal unknown until now

Rain pours and hail falls
Frigid hatred within each ball
The storm still rages yet

We know well enough what we had is dead
Trembling hands cradle pounding heads
These tears will forever flow

Lightning flashes and thunder booms
Accentuates the sadness flooding the room
Even the storm itself now trembles

The distance between us seems more than miles
We have failed our most important of trials
And now all that is left to say
Is goodbye

The fearsome darkness once again returns
I feel again its blackening burns
It comes once again to take my soul
This time I’m the one in control
I refuse to retreat consume by strife
I’m sick and tired, fed up with this life
I want a life that fits me rightly so
Like ebony feathers so well suit the crow
I want my own darkness, a blackened energy
A power so black, damned by the clergy
This is the last the darkness and I shall meet
For I shall accomplish my most monumentous feat
To defeat the darkness, I make no such claim
For we’ve struck a deal, I now have my own black flame
No longer will this darkness haunt my life
I’m now it’s emissary of destruction and strife

They sit in the sunlight, at the edge of the forest, chatting at three o' clock. The rabbit, naturally, is wearing a dress suit, casually sipping Earl-Grey from a tea-cup that is much too red. He is talking to the twins who had fallen in upon the rabbit drinking tea. One wearing a blue dress with a white apron, (her name is 'Alice') the other wearing white with a black bow in her hair (the same blonde hair as her twin, Alice). They sit in the sunlight, at the edge of the forest, chatting at three o' clock.

"Mister Hatter will arrive any moment, I'm sure." March Hare would reply.

"And Cheshire? Will Cheshire be here too?" Alice's Twin always asks.

"Will we meet the Queen? March Hare? Will we?" Alice asks

"Of course Alice, dear," March hare replies as he checks his time peice "But first we must wait for Mister Hatter..."

"when will Mister Hatter Arive?" Alice and her Twin ask

"Mister Hatter will arrive any moment, I'm sure." March Hare would reply.

They sit in the sunlight, at the edge of the frset, chatting at three o' clock. They are stuck eternally at tea-time, repeating the same conversation over and over like a skipping CD. Trapped forever in Wonderland.

Hannah Braman
Young Writers Project
Number 32
Chelsea Public School
Grade 9
May 15, 2012

I'm ready

My heart beats faster
All I can think about is getting past her
My eyes widen with fear
This is a whole new year
My feet dance on the floor
I keep staring at the door
The marker draws across the white board
Forty minutes until we head out to the field of sward
I clear my mind, time  for business
We're all about success
Time pasts, only thirty-four
This is what we train for
Time to go face the crowd
Wow, they're really loud
My feet slide across the grass
I know what's at task
I am ready to play
I have been preparing all day
Let's go get a win
I'm ready to begin

The woods were playful and exciting that night in November. Starlight had just begun to fall upon the leaves, dusted in the first snow. Slight glimmers were cast off the icy edge of every angle. John had agreed to meet me here at this spot in the woods after the first snow at this time, midnight. It had been six months since I had seen his pale spotless face. I could imagine his Brown hair in fearless waves over his head, accompanied by dark eyes. The kind of eyes that reflect firelight and smiles.
            Last January we came to where I stand now. We stood here and he looked at me and pulled a pack of matches out of his pocket. I was always intrigued about how he always used the lesser technology. When he chose matches instead of a lighter, was one of the amazing moments I’ll remember forever. He lit a fire and I was dazzled, as I always am, at the reflection of the flames in his eyes. When the flames danced, his eyes went along with them in a waltz of pure emotion.
            I looked out into the forest thinking about seeing him and finally learning what had happened to make him leave in a haste, knowing if he was okay. The night was drifting with shadows and innocent blows of the bitter wind. The leaves didn't rattle but snow occasionally fell from dusted branches. Swirls of stray snowflakes fell from the sky twirling with the ever changing direction of the breeze. He would be here soon.
            I gazed up into the moon thinking about the many times I looked at the moon just to wonder if he was looking too. Then there was a sound that escaped a girl's lips. It was high pitched, long, and intense; a curious sort of sound. It was a scream. This was not a scream of joy, but a scream of complete terror. No one could mistake the gnarled wisp of her voice cracking off in finality of the drawn out plea.  She was, without a doubt, horrified. The girl began another voice breaking yelp, but it was cut short, expanding only in my mind. Read more »

My brand new little brother and I play on the beach. We flex and say our muscles are bigger and criticize the other and we laugh. He smiles. We run along the beach and the waves make a swoosh as they come in all frothy. The late morning waves make my mind wonder far from my body. The rhythmic patterns of the waves lull me into my own world. I think about heaven and hell. I think about where people go when they die, and I think about the people I know to be dead. I think about my mom.
            That's when the first flashback starts.
            I see my Mom in the waves. The sky is now hazy with dawn just breaking over the horizon. She fights to shore and I whimper because I am too weak to help. The sun splits over the horizon behind me, like a giant ball of fire too shy to show its glory. The beams cast long thin cylinders that seem like they are captured in place to highlight my mother's face.  Her arms crash and her face is crying. Tears do not show but the sun glares off her water soaked face. The sun creeps a little higher in the sky. My mom sees me on the beach, and seems to give up. Her old body too rusty to keep going. I want to shout for her to keep fighting but the waves hit my feet and I have to crawl the remaining yard to the dry sand. I use everything I have. I dig my hands into the sand and scrunch the mud behind me with my toes. Everything seems to take an eternity. The sun lets out a new cluster of rays as it makes its way up into the sky, gaining self-confidence. The many cylinders that are rays don't have a target anymore and they burst free of their chains, which gives my stomach a sickly hollow. I feel the grains of sand cling to me. When I get to the dry area, I look back to a beautiful now sunlit calm ocean with no sign of my mother, with no hope of ever seeing her again. Read more »

A blown kiss can be caught 
From anywhere, 
Even if the receiver does not know 
It's coming. 
A blown kiss can reach 
Those in heaven or in hell. 
It can reach the whole...
Species of animal,
Or children of Africa. 
A blown kiss is powerful 
And could reach 
The pop star in London 
You've had an admiration for, 
Or a loved one in the army. 
A blown kiss can reach 
The crush you've had on the boy next door. 
A blown kiss can reach 
The boy you stand alone with, 
Fifteen feet apart, 
Three feet apart, 
Or even two inches apart, 
And a blown kiss can reach 
When it's no longer called "blown".

  Read more »

(Turns out growing up is just saying
goodbye a bunch of times)

She and the other girl are bent back to back like flowing
spokes of a wheel.
Their arms grasp each other's waists, legs straight
points & turn, as a unit, one girl over
another, immaculate.
Her partner, when she lifts off, jumps
into the air, preparing and then performing an action, but she
she just— rises; slow, smooth, strong—
hovers...
They have practiced this many times.
so much, I think, that it's no longer something they
do together— it's something they do
for each other.

(Turns out growing up is just saying
goodbye a bunch of times)

I will know this girl— no, woman for another month, maybe less
before she is gone for Cali-college
—she will continue to dance—

(Some people just deserve
a beautiful life)

The two-girl wheel makes its way turn
by
turn across the stage and almost into the wing before
they step off of each other like becoming
two people again.
They are coming back and
yin-yang-flowing on and
off, back and forth, they know
how to do what they do.

(Some people just deserve
a beautiful life)

Her hair curls
close to her head, face so
her own, like a painting, like
the music she knows how to dance to
like liberty—

(Some people are just beautiful)

Everyone here is saying goodbye to one family.
She is saying goodbye to everyone here.
She is leaving— all of this. Read more »

(Turns out growing up is just saying

goodbye a bunch of times)

She and the other girl are bent back to back like flowing

spokes of a wheel.

Their arms grasp each other's waists, legs straight

points & turn, as a unit, one girl over

another, immaculate.

Her partner, when she lifts off, jumps

into the air, preparing and then performing an action, but she

she just— rises; slow, smooth, strong—

hovers...

They have practiced this many times.

so much, I think, that it's no longer something they

do together— it's something they do

for each other.

(Turns out growing up is just saying

goodbye a bunch of times)

I will know this girl— woman for another month, maybe less

before she leaves for California, and then college.

—she will continue to dance—

(Some people just deserve

a beautiful life)

The two-girl wheel makes its way turn

by

turn across the stage and almost into the wing before

they step off of each other like becoming

two people again.

They are coming back and

yin-yang-flowing on and

off, back and forth, they know

how to do what they do.

(Some people just deserve

a beautiful life)

Her hair curls

close to her head, face so

her own, like a painting, like

the music she knows how to dance to

like liberty—

  Read more »

Once upon a time
There was a man named Crusoe
Stong and Bold, he challenged the sea

Beat at the waves with hull and sail,
Until the sea had had enough
And threw him back to land.

When the light dawned behind his battered eyes
He saw a coast of windswept sand
And twisted trees

He rose out of the sea, and the sand fell still beneath his feet
And the mountians watched as he swept past the beach and into the
Wilderness

From a corpse on a noose he took a shirt
From a merchant he took a blade
And set out to seek the land

The roads blurred, and his burden grew
He grew a fabulous moustache
And the towns began to whisper his name

The roads he feared no more
The fen and marsh and cave
Each one an eager challenge

Then one day his name was revered
And those who feared the hopeful
Set out upon the rode with mount and blade

The shadows cloaked him as he ran
The rivers swift and silent
But he could not run forever

And so he was bound and beaten
And the mud furrowed as his arms were dragged
Into a wooden wagon
Where three more stared with baleful eyes
At the man bound and close to death
And the carriage moved under him

Carried him to a stronghold of choking stone
Children were carried inside
And the wagoned stopped Read more »

Who is the most beautiful person? What makes a person beautiful? Is it their hair, eyes, size, or clothing? No. The most beautiful people are not measured by looks or popularity; it has nothing to do with how someone looks. They are the people who have gone through the most and are the nicest.  They are the people who will stand up for a complete stranger and not care if people judge them. They are the people who are always there to help, no matter what the problem is no matter who the one in need is. The most beautiful people do not have to fit into what modern societies “cookie cutter” of what is pretty or not. They are beautiful where it count, on the inside.
 

Crash, slam POW
Water rushing around me
An unstoppable force
Pushing me, pulling me
I can’t lose focus in this river
For it could take my life
One distraction, one tall wave
One splash that flips me
My kayak is nothing compared to the water surrounding me
My life in its hands,
Along for the ride I sit

Nothing like life where I’m in control
I have little power here
Where when in the real world
Every choice is my decision
And the path I chose could be any
I go in one direction now,
Stopping is my only choice
And that is only if I can succeed in that with my life.
Crash, slam, POW
Water rushing around me
 

There was a wolf named Pedro

Who lived in the woods

He hunted each day

until he was full

One day

while out hunting

he came upon a hunter

and viciously growled at him

So the hunter shot him, till he was dead.

I know this is selfish
But I have a problem of my own
It seems as though recently
I cannot write a poem

This year started out grand
I hit the ground running
But it’s all fizzled out
I’ve lost my wit and cunning

It was fun while it lasted
Now I’m all washed up
For my short poetic career
I request we all raise a cup

My poetry is gone
It has abandoned my head
Though sometime it sleeps
This time it’s dead

I try to write verse
And it comes out all wrong
If I can’t write some lines
How will my poetry live on?

I already said it once
The thought still tortures my head
I struggle to hold as it fades
My poetry is dead
 

The grass is green
My feet are free
I’m calm and relaxed
As I read under the tree

I glimpse down to the grass
The grass tickling my toe
Scared of all the critters among
I come to realize it just needs a mow

The sky is clear
Though I fear the end may be near
When the greens change to red, orange, and yellow
Soon all the men will be hunting deer

Summer is my favorite
Sometimes I think it’s because of the sun
But really it’s because of
The grasses that I run
Green is calming
Refreshes the soul
Mends the tears
And cleans up just in time to make a goal

I don’t know what it is
But it’s something about the color green

This image was uploaded with the post Sunshine.