week7-08

By Elena Eames
Dummerston Middle School, Grade 8

An old box in my attic
filled with memories
joyful and harsh times
crammed into a tiny box
sitting in my attic.

I crawled through the stuffy heat, my arms and legs sticky like honey. It sat in the center of the small attic as if it wanted me to wipe off the years of dust and pry it open. Sunlight poured through the tiny window illuminating my newly found treasure. An intricate design was cut into the red wood, an expensive old box, no doubt. I gingerly traced the carved swirls and patterns thinking of who had cherished this box before me, who had hidden their secrets inside it and who had lived and loved and packed their life in a box to be found by me.

By Izzy Moody
Monkton Central School, Grade 5

My attic is where I go when I need to think. It’s a room of inspiration. A cupboard packed full of fresh stories. I like to sit in an old wooden rocking chair in the corner, by the window. I call it my rainy day chair. I sit there and look out the window onto the coloring maple trees. It’s like looking onto an artist’s palette. I can sit there for hours on end and not write a single word. Writing takes time. You need to observe and think. You need to process your ideas. Other times I write everything that’s on my mind and transfer it all onto paper.

By Mattie Hayes
BFA-Fairfax, Grade 8

By Moya Cavanagh
Browns River Middle School, Grade 8

Ho hum
The pocket sings,
Off to wander
The world.
Nestled in
Folds of grace,
Silken gold
The pocket
Waits,
A sanctuary for
Little things
Ribbons
Gloves
A piece of string
The pocket is home
To every thing.
Flying with
Spinning tiers of
Lace,
The pocket is
A special place,
A wormhole between
Time,
Generations slide by

The Attic

By Emily Coon
Mount Mansfield Union High School, Grade 12

She breaks the cradle
for firewood,
splintering along seams,
rocking horse dreams
melting away
beneath heat’s lick.
She folds up red jumpsuits,
places bobble hats
quietly
inside
an oaken box
her father left.
She turns a key
swift click
of oblivion.
She lifts it to a high shelf
above the window
worn leather toes
stretching up
as she caresses its lock
and hinges.
It sits, stunted
embryo of memory,
a seed entombed
in its white paper
packet, waiting
to grow.

By Kacie Collins
Woodstock Union High School, Grade 10

Everyday Persuasions

By Henry Farrand
Woodstock Union High School, Grade 10

Persuasions of the day
Affect us in every way
Thoughts you kept to yourself
But then changed by someone else
Ideas and memories held once dear
Changed by sound for slightest ear
Persuasion to me
Is like looking through an eye you cannot see
Reading people
Knowing that they may be feeble
Using your mind

Persuaded by Me!

By Chloe Dickinson
Woodstock Union High School, Grade 10

First I ask nicely, that’s always the key
Smile politely; they’ll like what they see.
I’ll carefully craft the question and wait,
To see if they’ve followed my bait.
But if they don’t my honesty ensues
And they learn all my reasons and views.
My blunt opinion comes out of it all

By Noellen Neisner
Woodstock Union High School, Grade 10

It was musty up there
In the attic
Where the old possessions were kept
Out of sunlight
Until the day the curious step out of the light
And into the dark.

By Sean Bjornsson
Woodstock Union High School, Grade 10

Hey man, could you do this for me?
I would love you forever.
You know you want to.
C’mon, I can’t do it, I’m totally swamped.
Please? It would be great if you could.
You don’t want to?
Well, that’s a shame.
I was trying to be nice about it,
But he said you have to.
What do you mean you don’t believe me?

By Misha Kydd
Mount Mansfield Union High School, Grade 9

Talk to me.
Honeyed words, liquid and thick,
Dripping, coating my mind,
Making me believe,
Bending my will with sugar-coated
Voice.
Dimly I'm aware that I have feelings,
Opinions of my own,
But you talk so sweetly,
Your ideas seem better,
Seem right.
I am afraid to think,
To reason,
Since you are so sure,
So positive,

Little Brass Box

By Greg Goedewaagen
Woodstock Union High School, Grade 10

Sun shines through the crudely spaced walls,
casting highlights of gold on a dust carpeted floor.
And while the wind weeps its weary call,
there’s a little brass box that hears no one, sees no one,
for one day and a few more, and back again.

By Molly Pekarik
Mount Mansfield Union High School, Grade 9

Tilt your head a little more
Look through the corner of your eyes
Smile more unsurely than is necessary
Above all be polite
Make yourself smaller, the bench is long
Clasp your hands nervously
Flip your hair
Laugh at all his jokes
Order another glass of water
Part your lips slightly
Plead with your eyes
Ask to share your desert
Wipe the whipped cream off his face
Let him help you out the door
Talk before you get in the car
Brush his arm gently
And grin off-center
Do not protest when he sweeps you
Into a long embrace
Kiss him back
Hold it a minute longer than you want to
Cast your eyes down and pull your coat tighter
Yes, there will be another date.