best 06-07

Editor's note: Rebecca recorded this piece for Vermont Public Radio in the summer of 2007 as part of the YWP/VPR "My Life" series. Do you have a story about your life? Do you want to be on radio? For more, click here.

My Teacher
By Rebecca Landell
I can still see her there, on the front steps, standing by her son. She wasn't beautiful. No, she wasn't beautiful, but she was lovely. Her arms would be crossed, her carrot-red hair brushing her shoulders, and she would be saying - as she always did when I thanked her at the end of a lesson - "It's a pleasure."

By Maureen Spicer
Dummerston Elementary School, Grade 8

there is this key
this key is
special to me
it leads you to
unmarked land

By Gretchen Kaija
Woodstock Union High School, Grade 10

Tarnished, dusty, old
Hidden from the light of day
Long-forgotten key

How do you do it?

By Angela Wood
Colchester High School, Grade 9

Dear Mr. President,

I’m not exactly sure what to say in a letter to someone who has such an effect on all of our lives. You seem so distant, yet every decision you make affects us somehow. I can’t imagine what it is like to have the responsibility of a nation on your shoulders. You work as hard as any other man, probably harder, and yet the consequences of your choices affect so much more than those of the average worker. How do you do it?

Potty Talk
By Izzy Moody
Monkton Central School, Grade 4

“Flight number 16/24 from gate 25 has been delayed.” A woman said from the intercom. I slouched down into the green bench I was sharing with my little sister Theresa. Ugh. A baby near by was wailing his little head off. I felt bad for his mom. I felt bad for me. I felt bad for flight 16/24. Theresa dug her elbow into my stomach.

“Ugh.” I groaned.

“Potty, potty, potty!” Theresa sang, removing her, sweaty, bony butt from my lap. I think my feet were asleep because when my “oh so cute little sister” landed on my toe, I felt nothing.
Theresa skipped and sang, “Goin’ to the potty, the potty, the potty!” and skipped away, dragging me after her, ugh. We finally arrived at the woman’s restrooms after a lot of zigzagging around, and sometimes through people. “Potty!” Theresa yelled and led the way into the bathroom. I thought that I might as well go myself since we were there. I heard a lady talking in the stall next to me.

The room
By Charlotte Reber
Lamoille Union High School, Grade 10

“And this is my workshop,” said Parral, leading me into another room. The lights flicked on as we entered, and I found myself in a short, square room, made of a pale yellow stone, with columns in the corners that rose up to support the beams running below the pyramid-shaped roof. There were triangular skylights set neatly into the slanted ceiling, with tinted glass that gave the room a pleasant, yellowish ambient light, reflecting off the piles of junk and odd objects that were scattered all over the room.

“I really haven’t cleaned this place up in a while,” Parral said, shoving a crate of oranges off a chair and settling behind the large, curved desk of dark polished wood which appeared to be the cleanest part of the room. He leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Oh, watch out behind you.”

I jumped and looked behind me, then leapt out of the way as a chain of colored Chinese lanterns fell from one of the beams to dangle where I had been standing a moment ago.

By Colin Doherty
Champlain Valley Union High School, Grade 11

By Noah Brautigam
Green Mountain Valley School, Grade 12

There’s poetry in her hips,
Speaking to me,
Rhythm and flow.

Pendulums swinging
from her shoulders,
Sheathed in the brightest yellow I have ever seen.
Cadence matched by
the sway and flirt of her hair,
Yellow.

Even as is dances away from me.

Yellow is the sun,
Base orb.
There is no pain in yellow.

What is a weapon?
By Angela Wood
Colchester High School, Grade 9

A firearm.
Rifles.
Handguns.
Shotguns.
Cannons and tanks and heavy artillery.
Tools of destruction war.

A blade.
Swords
Daggers
Pocket knives
Steak knives
Butcher knives
Butter knives
Tools of use in the house, yet still so dangerous.

Spigelbilder
By Margo Adams
Champlain Valley Union High School, Grade 11

The world was warm when wrapped and secure in my mother’s arms. A small beady-eyed creature rested before me clad in the same animal printed blanket that kept the chill from my tiny body. Maybe my mother cooed to me as she rocked me back and forth before the reflective surface. I saw myself being cuddled tenderly. My mind only knew of the love that guided my gentle descent in life.

New Life Born
By Liz Dion
Hartford Memorial Middle School, Grade 8

Eyeliner in my pocket
using it has made my vision blurry
Now I am near-sighted
with no money for glasses,
or a New Baby

The cold wind on my cheek
Blowing through my hair,
I stand
Waiting, on a park bench
I’m not sure for what

Just waiting.
Waiting

Gay is not a Disease
By Michelle Coburn
Oxbow High School, Grade 10

It really ticks me off
When people try to act like god
The hurtful things they say
All because this boy is gay
They have no right to judge
They have no reason to hold a grudge
He is sweet and he is kind
How can everyone be so blind

Boxed In
By Emma Redden
Leland and Gray Union High School, Grade 9

My vocabulary consists of
Five words from the time
I step into my plastic casket
Until it is time for me to
Reincarnate myself.

My one sided conversations consist of
Four syllable sentences.
The first few words a kindergartener
Learns when playing store.