the boy

It seems almost
absurd, that
the boy I
built splintered bridges with, and
talked forever with, and
who chose me as
the first to hear
of his thoughts on
suicide and
God,

is now growing
facial
hair:

blond, awkward prickles that
make him look like
a
cactus.

Now lifetimes away from
childhood,
I still see him as
a little
boy,
and this new
addition

just makes him look
ridiculous.

Young, overburdened
Hard days, overtime
Not enough pay
Do not cause a scene
A child’s life in the mills

Alone
By Kati Borsh
Woodstock Union High School, Grade 10

Alone he stands
Eyes cast down
Lost yet found
Ripped clothes
Full of misfortune
Yet somehow content
Happy in his own little paradise

Working day and night
In the fields
Around the farm
Hairs mussed
Skin pale
Bony
Yet behind the grim expression
A bit of happiness

What does the future hold?
By Heather Rameau
Woodstock Union High School, Grade 10

The young boy.
Spirited, full of energy, but alone.
Living a peaceful life,
yet screaming a silent moan.
Up at dawn, down at dark
Working all day
But he doesn’t have a say
His spirit young as the dawn of a new day,

Whiskey problems on the boy's mind
By Noah Gray
Woodstock Union High School, Grade 10

Whiskey. I hate it. The smell? A sour reek. The color? Like old wet hay. And the terrible effect it has had upon my family.

My name is Willy Nickels, and it was a year and a half ago that my brother, Bill Nickels, left our house to smuggle a load of whiskey down from Canada. The Nickelses have always been serious whiskey runners; my father — Robert — my father’s father and his father before him all smuggled liquor into America. My older brother Bill, he was no different.

Chore time
By Kaiya Provost
Colchester High School, Grade 9

Ten years old and just waking up, he lives in a farm and prefers not to speak. He does not look at anyone in the wrong way, nor does he make himself known to others. He is but a child, and children are to be seen and not heard.

Who are those guys?
By Jenn Clark
Hartford Memorial Middle School, Grade 7

I was just minding my own business, working on the farm, and out of nowhere these people with cameras started taking pictures of me and the farm. I didn’t know what to do so I ran to get my father.

Prayers for those who don't understand
By Keisha Picknell
Hartford High School, Grade 10

A shy boy with sad eyes,
Lonely, reserved, disguised;
Mystery swept across his face
As if he was longing to win this race
Of telling his story,
His glory,
His pride of living where he does:
The Farm.
His soul feels empty, transparent.

Unbearable is the weight
By Whitney Dubie
Essex High School, Grade 12

Oh cold, reckless hollowed feet;
Oh heavy, miserable legs —
You carry me through these trials.

A shadow of her heavy weightless oppression
Coming over us like a lighted speck
On a mountainside.

It’s something unbearable,
Yet expected.

Photographer's point of view
By Kaitlin Bates
Hartford High School, Grade 10

His daddy owned a farm 10 miles up the road.
They didn’t have much money
But
They had each other.
The little boy looked tired,
He was a hard worker.
There wasn’t much time for fun,
When you had chores to do.

This boy is not what you think
By Paul Seaver
Hartford High School, Grade 10

This young boy is not living in poverty. He does not live on a farm as many would assume. His mornings do not consist of collecting eggs and milking cows. In fact, the boy has never even been to a farm. This boy is just a normal kid, but unlike other eight-year-old boys, he has a job.

Look into his eyes By Adam Bogdanowicz
The Renaissance School, Grade 5

He is there.
He stares at me, eyes digging out
Of the page, almost hauntingly,
As if he was real, and
I know he
Has gone through many hardships,
And I can see all of his life,
His joys, his agony,
All through this one poorly copied
Photo on a sheet of paper.