YWP Newsletter- 12/10/18
Welcome to another December issue of the YWP Newletter!
Lately, I have been enjoying the small breaks I find: getting cozy in bed on the weekends, watching movies, creating holiday presents, writing with tea. Winter's darkness, cold, and holiday/school stress can be hard, remember to take time for yourself!! Only a few weeks until school vacation, get ready.
If you're already familiar with the YWP Newsletter, feel free to skip the next bit.
Welcome to the YWP Newsletter! These weelky newsletters are curated and created by a team of Community Leaders, who, along with many others, recommend work for publication, create challenges, give feedback, and do some writing of our own! This newsletter is a highlight of our favorite work from each week, creative, insightful, entertaining, sometimes focusing on a certain theme... we aim for variety in our collection each week to reflect and engage that of the many writers, artists, photographers and musicians of YWP. We, as the editors, hope to give the creators of YWP a wider audience, provide the busy members a taste of each week's pieces, and share some that we particularly loved with you. Please become a returning reader: check out the other newsletters, and share the link with many others who may enjoy it!
This week's authors and photographers are: AboutToSnap, lana.W, Bre, Graceful, Abriatis, My Perpetual Wednesday, Rubber Soul, wondering about rain and, angry strawberry
YWP Happenings:
There are lots of amazing things to do this week!
Winter Tales is starting this Wednesday the 12th and going until Sunday the 16th! Join us at the Main Street Landing Black Box Theatre in Burlington, VT. Buy tickets here!
SoundCheck is happening this Thursday from 6-8 pm at Burlington City Arts! There's pizza!
Learn about more upcoming and reoccuring YWP events here!
That Wall
by lana.W
Do you ever feel
like life is written for you?
You ever feel like your thoughts aren’t your own.
You ever feel like some sixteen-year-old theatre geek
is sitting in front of a computer,
writing about how you feel.
You ever wanna just…
reach out.
Push on that wall over there.
No, not that wall!
This one.
You know,
the one marked, “Do not push.”
What would happen?
Hey you, I asked you a question.
Yeah, you.
What would I see?
A god?
A writer?
A cartoonist?
A director holding his camera?
There’s got to be more than this.
Photo credit left: Bre
by lana.W
Do you ever feel
like life is written for you?
You ever feel like your thoughts aren’t your own.
You ever feel like some sixteen-year-old theatre geek
is sitting in front of a computer,
writing about how you feel.
You ever wanna just…
reach out.
Push on that wall over there.
No, not that wall!
This one.
You know,
the one marked, “Do not push.”
What would happen?
Hey you, I asked you a question.
Yeah, you.
What would I see?
A god?
A writer?
A cartoonist?
A director holding his camera?
There’s got to be more than this.
Photo credit left: Bre
Umbrella Dancers
by Graceful
The big bell rings
Umbrellas pop open all at once.
Dancers swing under them,
Synchronized as they dance their way
Through London’s streets.
Their umbrellas move up and down
To the songs they sing,
The music of instruments coming from apartments
Filling the air with precious melody.
No more busy cars or buses
Taking up the streets,
Only the umbrella people
Singing with joy in the pouring rain.
Photo credit right: Abriatis
by Graceful
The big bell rings
Umbrellas pop open all at once.
Dancers swing under them,
Synchronized as they dance their way
Through London’s streets.
Their umbrellas move up and down
To the songs they sing,
The music of instruments coming from apartments
Filling the air with precious melody.
No more busy cars or buses
Taking up the streets,
Only the umbrella people
Singing with joy in the pouring rain.
Photo credit right: Abriatis
Tiny Writes:
My Perpetual Wednesday
We are not the ones who hate.
We are the defenders of the unjustly hated.
Rubber Soul
As her lungs fall to pieces
She breathes in the dust
Castles will fall
Just as metal will rust.
Haikus
Marigolds
by angry strawberry
She strove for beauty;
Oasis from apathy.
Petals fall to dust.
Day 5: Drinking in the Haiku
by wondering about rain
Fat cat and a whale
sitting together, happy
they drank too much tea.
YWP Newsletter 12/3/18
Hello everyone!! It's been a while since I created a newsletter- since July, I think! It's certainly much colder now...
For this week's newsletter I chose works that focused mostly on longing and/or loss, there seemed to be quite a few, the choosing was difficult. This week's newsletter reminded me to enjoy the changing of the seasons, not resent it.
As usual, if you're a regular and already know what the YWP Newsletter is, feel free to skip the next part.
Welcome to the YWP Newsletter! These weelky newsletters are curated and created by a team of Community Leaders, who, along with many others, recommend work for publication, create challenges, give feedback, and do some writing of our own! This newsletter is a highlight of our favorite work from each week, creative, insightful, entertaining, sometimes focusing on a certain theme... we aim for variety in our collection each week to reflect and engage that of the many writers, artists, photographers and musicians of YWP. We, as the editors, hope to give the creators of YWP a wider audience, provide the busy members a taste of each week's pieces, and share some that we particularly loved with you. Please become a returning reader: check out the other newsletters, and share the link with many others who may enjoy it!
Authors in this newsletter are: zazu, Quella, Graceful, LadyMidnight, and Rubber Soul
All photo credits this week: Abriatis
YWP Happenings:
Join us for the next SoundCheck: December 13th, 6-8pm, Burlington City Arts!
Winter Tales! December 12th -16th, Main Street Landing Black Box Theatre, Burlington, Vt. Get tickets here!
Learn about more amazing YWP events here!
What it is
by zazu
What can I say?
People play different roles in their lifetime.
Some may be difficult to understand,
Even for the person who is trying it out for size.
Bursts of color,
Periods of gray.
Can people change each other?
The world is a circle of differences.
All unknowing,
All strange.
Inspiration lingers in the air.
Catch it,
And hold onto it.
What never changes?
Nothing.
Everything is so much more than that.
At some point a butterfly has to spread its wings,
And learn to stand out from the crowd.
The Light on the Table
by Quella
Today, I wondered
whether death is a womb as well—
whether anyone can fit the vastness of who they become
here
into such a small space again.
Perhaps though, the space is not so small.
I cannot say what the light on the table means,
Just that its voice sounds warm.
Its hands are soft.
Friend, I say,
do you know
your beautiful, beautiful name?
neither do I.
by Quella
Today, I wondered
whether death is a womb as well—
whether anyone can fit the vastness of who they become
here
into such a small space again.
Perhaps though, the space is not so small.
I cannot say what the light on the table means,
Just that its voice sounds warm.
Its hands are soft.
Friend, I say,
do you know
your beautiful, beautiful name?
neither do I.
Snowy Land
by Graceful
The trees crack,
Their moans echo through the forest
Before arriving back to my ears
The snow is heavy and wet
Sticking on the branches
Weighing them to eye level.
The chilly air picks fights with my skin
Turning it a rosy pink.
The piercing blue diamond eyes that are mine,
Take in the snow falling on my face and lashes.
Pine trees graze my skin
The smell strong as ever.
Rays of sun filter through
Kissing my cheeks with warmth.
My feet move through the snow
Carefully leaving my footprints behind
In the snowy white land.
by Graceful
The trees crack,
Their moans echo through the forest
Before arriving back to my ears
The snow is heavy and wet
Sticking on the branches
Weighing them to eye level.
The chilly air picks fights with my skin
Turning it a rosy pink.
The piercing blue diamond eyes that are mine,
Take in the snow falling on my face and lashes.
Pine trees graze my skin
The smell strong as ever.
Rays of sun filter through
Kissing my cheeks with warmth.
My feet move through the snow
Carefully leaving my footprints behind
In the snowy white land.
Tiny Writes
LadyMidnight
When you reach for the stars
You get the moon thrown in
Rubber Soul
I only had the nerve
To grab her hand
In my mind
To grab her hand
In my mind
YWP Newsletter 11. 26. 2018.
Hello again! At the end of last month I said goodbye until March, but here I am filling in for the previous editor during this last week of November. I’ve been a bit absent from YWP due to school and various other obligations, so it was wonderful to have an excuse to come back and get to read all the awesome writing that’s been created. As was the case last month, there is multitude of stories and poems, but not many photos or art. In fact, the above photo was actually taken by myself. Why a pie? Well, like many families in this county, mine made pies this Thanksgiving. I snapped a quick picture then, but it didn’t occur to me until I was enjoying a spicy, surypy piece what was really behind the delicious flavor. We came together to create this treat; we had shared the work and the anticipation, and now the reward. To me, pie is a symbol of family. My great grandmother’s specialty, I remember tins of blueberry and chocolate, apple and rhubarb set out like gifts. They’ve reappeared on different occasions; parties, weddings, Thanksgiving….but are always shared with family. Pies take time. From the kneading of the crust till it’s decoration, a connection is made with those who share in the task. For me, memories are framed in crimped pastry edges. This week, I chose pieces that spoke to family, given or chosen, and how our connections to them are a part of us just as the autumn wind flavors an apple.
As usual, the following is an intro to the YWP Newsletter for new readers. Feel free to skip ahead if you're a regular.
Welcome to the YWP Newsletter, curated and created by a team of Community Leaders, who, along with many others, Recommend work for Publication, Create Challenges, give feedback, and do some writing of our own! This Newsletter is a highlight of our favorite work from each week, creative, insightful, entertaining...we aim for variety to reflect and engage that of the many writers, artists, photographers and musicians of YWP. We, as the editors, hope to give these creators a wider audience, provide our busy members a taste of each week's pieces, and share some of the pieces we particularly loved with you. Please become a returning reader: Check out the other Newsletters, and share the link with others who may enjoy it.
This issue features the creations of: Abriatis, Basketball15, CecyRavenclawFireheart, colly-wobbles, Graceful, LadyMidnight, Love to Write, Nightheart, Quella, Rubber Soul, and ViolaLover9
YWP HAPPENINGS:
Next SoundCheck - December 13th, Thank you to everyone who participated in the Climate Open Mic, photos and video coming soon!
Winter Tales - December 12 - 16, Main Street Landing Black Box Theatre, Burlington, Vt - get tickets here!
Poetry Experience - Teen writing and performance workshops with Rajnii Eddins, this Saturday Decemeber 1st at the Fletcher Free Library, 1-3pm
Check out YWP Events 2018-19 for more information on these and other reoccuring events
Perfectly Imperfect Friend
By Graceful
Take me awake into the wind
Hold my hand tight and
Do not leave me behind.
Let’s run away into the fields and
Climb together to the tops of trees.
Let’s go to the loneliest street and make it full of hope,
We live without worries.
Let’s peer into the expected puddles and
And splash them into the unexpected.
We will have each other's backs,
So don’t worry if you branch breaks
I will be there for you to lean on.
Though I am not perfect I will try to be,
I will be
Your perfectly imperfect friend.
( Photo Credit: Abriatis )
By Graceful
Take me awake into the wind
Hold my hand tight and
Do not leave me behind.
Let’s run away into the fields and
Climb together to the tops of trees.
Let’s go to the loneliest street and make it full of hope,
We live without worries.
Let’s peer into the expected puddles and
And splash them into the unexpected.
We will have each other's backs,
So don’t worry if you branch breaks
I will be there for you to lean on.
Though I am not perfect I will try to be,
I will be
Your perfectly imperfect friend.
( Photo Credit: Abriatis )
Fragments 2
By angelaweasley
Fragments are all I have left of him.
Faded photographs in porcelain blue boxes shoved under my bed,
saved voicemails,
a letter in bright blue ink.
He left before I could articulate I needed him,
toddler hands grasping his shirt at the airport.
I waited-
seven hours and thirty-eight minutes.
I replayed the few memories of him over and over:
A thunderstorm in Puebla, the rain pelting the roof,
the way the lightning,
stabbing at intervals,
arched across the sky.
His laugh, rippling across the living room.
A birthday party, three candles on a sagging cake.
My awe visiting the ruins at Cacaxtla,
how he sat me on his shoulders so I could see,
stacked rock that used to be homes,
desperate etchings on the walls
spelling out a story I had yet to read.
These home movies flickered against my eyelids
before I fell asleep,
before I blew the candles out every year,
before Father’s Day.
Something changed while I was revisiting my most treasured memory:
an afternoon riding the carousel,
waving every time I passed my parents.
I loved the reassurance,
the motion,
the vertigo of seeing them both at the next turn.
But details began to change.
Was he wearing green or blue?
What flavor of ice cream was in his hand?
Chocolate or strawberry?
I no longer knew if it was my father that resided in my memories,
or a crude copy.
I didn’t understand why he was blurring and shifting.
I was losing the truth of him, bit by bit.
I began to wonder if it was better not to remember.
Now, trying to sleep,
I struggle to silence his bedtime story about Popocatepetl
he’d tell as I looked at the actual volcano through our window.
Now, blowing out my eighteen candles,
I try not to taste the coconut frosting he wiped from my hands on my third birthday.
On Father’s Day I try to erase the gnawing feeling in my chest.
What was I to him?
Mi reina, mi corazón, mi vida.
Remembering him, I began losing him;
trying not to remember him,
I lost him anyway.
Trying not to forget him terrified me as much as forgetting him.
So, I did what I always do when I’m scared: I wrote.
Stanza by stanza,
I stored him where I could never forget him.
Tucked into words,
rhymes,
torn corners of paper,
post-its,
backs of old homeworks shoved into the smallest pocket of my backpack.
My words became like the photographs I kept of you,
the ones that you are a blur in.
I can see the movement,
How you left after the flash.
( Photo Credit: Love to write )
By angelaweasley
Fragments are all I have left of him.
Faded photographs in porcelain blue boxes shoved under my bed,
saved voicemails,
a letter in bright blue ink.
He left before I could articulate I needed him,
toddler hands grasping his shirt at the airport.
I waited-
seven hours and thirty-eight minutes.
I replayed the few memories of him over and over:
A thunderstorm in Puebla, the rain pelting the roof,
the way the lightning,
stabbing at intervals,
arched across the sky.
His laugh, rippling across the living room.
A birthday party, three candles on a sagging cake.
My awe visiting the ruins at Cacaxtla,
how he sat me on his shoulders so I could see,
stacked rock that used to be homes,
desperate etchings on the walls
spelling out a story I had yet to read.
These home movies flickered against my eyelids
before I fell asleep,
before I blew the candles out every year,
before Father’s Day.
Something changed while I was revisiting my most treasured memory:
an afternoon riding the carousel,
waving every time I passed my parents.
I loved the reassurance,
the motion,
the vertigo of seeing them both at the next turn.
But details began to change.
Was he wearing green or blue?
What flavor of ice cream was in his hand?
Chocolate or strawberry?
I no longer knew if it was my father that resided in my memories,
or a crude copy.
I didn’t understand why he was blurring and shifting.
I was losing the truth of him, bit by bit.
I began to wonder if it was better not to remember.
Now, trying to sleep,
I struggle to silence his bedtime story about Popocatepetl
he’d tell as I looked at the actual volcano through our window.
Now, blowing out my eighteen candles,
I try not to taste the coconut frosting he wiped from my hands on my third birthday.
On Father’s Day I try to erase the gnawing feeling in my chest.
What was I to him?
Mi reina, mi corazón, mi vida.
Remembering him, I began losing him;
trying not to remember him,
I lost him anyway.
Trying not to forget him terrified me as much as forgetting him.
So, I did what I always do when I’m scared: I wrote.
Stanza by stanza,
I stored him where I could never forget him.
Tucked into words,
rhymes,
torn corners of paper,
post-its,
backs of old homeworks shoved into the smallest pocket of my backpack.
My words became like the photographs I kept of you,
the ones that you are a blur in.
I can see the movement,
How you left after the flash.
( Photo Credit: Love to write )
My Inner Self
By Basketball15
I am from needle and thread,
From extra pieces of cloth and the running stitch.
I’m from sliding down the stairs like a penguin,
“Thumping” the whole way down!
I’m from flour-covered clothes, sneaking cookie dough,
and the aroma of cinnamon.
I’m from hearing, “I love you,” “Clean up your mess,” and “Don’t touch that!”
I am from cleaning the mud from under my nails,
From running around with wings,
hoping one day I would be able to fly!
I am from suitcases, the constant whirring of engines,
and soaring above the clouds for so long that time vanishes.
I’m from the city of red brick houses with brown shingles and eggshell fences.
The city of Afrikaans and Zulu,
where the Atlantic and Indian Ocean hold hands.
I am from the country of spices, zooming around in auto rickshaws,
and punjabi-style dresses, that glisten in the light!
I’m from the Taj Mahal, Moses Mabhida Stadium, and Table Mountain.
I’m from zigzagging across the ice,
From falling onto my knees and learning how to get back up.
I am from hiding behind the couch and doors, giggling when I was found!
I’m from running outside to taste the first snowflakes of the year,
Jumping into snow piles and getting hit by snowballs.
I am from بسمله هير رحمن نير رحيم (In the name of God, the most merciful, the most kind),
and from memorizing verses from the book of Allah.
I’m from eating cake and celebrating my sister’s birthday on All Hallow’s Eve.
No costumes, ringing bells, and comparing who has the most candy.
I am from hugs and kisses, being tucked into bed, and hearing the words, “Sweet dreams.”
I am from the miles separating my family,
counting down the days till I return!
( Photo Credit: CecyRavenclawFireheart )
By Basketball15
I am from needle and thread,
From extra pieces of cloth and the running stitch.
I’m from sliding down the stairs like a penguin,
“Thumping” the whole way down!
I’m from flour-covered clothes, sneaking cookie dough,
and the aroma of cinnamon.
I’m from hearing, “I love you,” “Clean up your mess,” and “Don’t touch that!”
I am from cleaning the mud from under my nails,
From running around with wings,
hoping one day I would be able to fly!
I am from suitcases, the constant whirring of engines,
and soaring above the clouds for so long that time vanishes.
I’m from the city of red brick houses with brown shingles and eggshell fences.
The city of Afrikaans and Zulu,
where the Atlantic and Indian Ocean hold hands.
I am from the country of spices, zooming around in auto rickshaws,
and punjabi-style dresses, that glisten in the light!
I’m from the Taj Mahal, Moses Mabhida Stadium, and Table Mountain.
I’m from zigzagging across the ice,
From falling onto my knees and learning how to get back up.
I am from hiding behind the couch and doors, giggling when I was found!
I’m from running outside to taste the first snowflakes of the year,
Jumping into snow piles and getting hit by snowballs.
I am from بسمله هير رحمن نير رحيم (In the name of God, the most merciful, the most kind),
and from memorizing verses from the book of Allah.
I’m from eating cake and celebrating my sister’s birthday on All Hallow’s Eve.
No costumes, ringing bells, and comparing who has the most candy.
I am from hugs and kisses, being tucked into bed, and hearing the words, “Sweet dreams.”
I am from the miles separating my family,
counting down the days till I return!
( Photo Credit: CecyRavenclawFireheart )
Tiny Writes
No one on here
Has hate in their heart.
No one is unkind.
People are genuine
And respect others.
Everyday
I am so thankful for being able to express myself and being encouraged.
Picked up of the ground and brought back into the light.
I am thankful for each and everyone of you for being kind loving caring brave individuals and never being afraid to be who you are. - LadyMidnight
In the car on our way to New York for Thanksgiving my family passed gg on the highway.
That was a very strange coincidence. - Rubber Soul
Only the days that you are without them, do you realize how important friends are. - colly-wobbles
with every new user,
another soul added to this beloved home
it gets merrier, more words spoken
more art created
more lives brightened
and so, YWP, and all your users,
I thank you
for giving me a home
for giving me a family
for giving me a pen and paper
for encouraging me to be the best I can be.
- Abriatis
fingers swirling on the keys
she sketches her corner of the universe
with the touch of her sister's hand
on her hair.-
- ViolaLover9
these words are more my blood than anything that ever flowed through my veins - Nightheart
she sketches her corner of the universe
with the touch of her sister's hand
on her hair.-
- ViolaLover9
these words are more my blood than anything that ever flowed through my veins - Nightheart
YWP Newsletter 11-6-2018
Hello all and thanks for tuning in to this week's newsletter!
It has been a very wet fall. Did you know that there is a word for that smell that lingers in the air after it rains? Crazy, right?! The word is: petrichor. Anyway, the petrichor scent has been lingering in the air for quite sometime now. I have come to expect the tap, tap, tapping of rain on my window in the grey mornings. The rain wakes me up by tapping it's damp fingers on the glass above my bed. It has become a soothing rhythm, synonymous with the sound of birds in the morning. Both the rain and the birds are effective alarm clocks.
The stores have begun selling christmas candy, decorations, and presents. An epidemic of Christmas music is about to start spreading! Do not try to avoid it, there is no way to be immune to the Christmas cheer, we will all be infected one way or another. I have been thinking about something recently. There is Halloween music, and Christmas music, but no Thanksgiving music. Why are there no songs about turkey, gravy, or that overwhelming sleepy feeling you get right after dinner? Thanksgiving deserves music. On the other hand, I am excited to listen to Mariah Carey's All I Want For Christmas Is You every single day on repeat until the New Year.
To all of the seniors on YWP, we all wish you the best on college applications. A college admissions counselor once told me that it is not about what school will take you, but which school deserves you. That changed the way I thought about admissions.
Up next is the general intro to the newsletter, if you've read it before skip ahead to the good stuff! Remember to check out the important dates at the bottom! Enjoy!
Welcome to the YWP Newsletter, curated and created by a team of Community Leaders, who, along with many others, Recommend work for Publication, Create Challenges, give feedback, and do some writing of our own! This Newsletter is a highlight of our favorite work from each week, creative, insightful, entertaining...we aim for variety to reflect and engage that of the many writers, artists, photographers and musicians of YWP. We, as the editors, hope to give these creators a wider audience, provide our busy members a taste of each week's pieces, and share some of the pieces we particularly loved with you. Please become a returning reader: Check out the other Newsletters, and share the link with others who may enjoy it.
This issue features the creations of: LadyMidnight, dogpoet, irishjayne, RubberSoul, NAW793, Eli, Abriatis, nean_bean, Fiona Ella, Drift
YWP HAPPENINGS:
November 15: Climate Open Mic - All are Welcome! - Come share environmentally - themed words and art, then collaborate with fellow creators to speak out for our planet. I hope to see you there!
Check out YWP Events 2018-19 for more information on this Special SoundCheck, and other ongoing opportunities.
Why Your Vote Matters
By NAW793
Your Vote Matters.
It all starts with one.
One turns to two, two votes turn into more, and soon you have thousands of votes, each one contributing a little bit to the long term cause.
If one person doesn't vote, that one person will turn to two.
Two will turn to more, and soon you have thousands, each one decreasing the chance that the results will make you happy.
Little things can turn into big ones, from one simple vote to thousands, even millions of votes.
Raise your voice, because your opinion matters.
YOU matter.
(Photo Credit: Abriatis)
By NAW793
Your Vote Matters.
It all starts with one.
One turns to two, two votes turn into more, and soon you have thousands of votes, each one contributing a little bit to the long term cause.
If one person doesn't vote, that one person will turn to two.
Two will turn to more, and soon you have thousands, each one decreasing the chance that the results will make you happy.
Little things can turn into big ones, from one simple vote to thousands, even millions of votes.
Raise your voice, because your opinion matters.
YOU matter.
(Photo Credit: Abriatis)
Queen Dorothy of the Stereotypical Teens
By LadyMidnight
"All hail her majesty, the queen of teenagers!"
Oops, that's me.
God, on this planet they act like I'm a god or something.
I snap my gum and step out into the road.
Really?
They are bowing again?
Whatever.
It's better than nothing.
Besides no one ever did that in Kansas.
Seriously.
That tornado was the best day of my life.
Left behind that stinky old farm and became a queen.
Not bad considering I'm not yet 14.
"Speech! Speech!"
Like, really though?
Uggg...
But I suppose if it makes the Munchkins happy.
I'll just pass a few laws and stuff.
" Um.. Hey everyone!"
Loud cheers
"So.. Here's your speech. I am umm.. creating a new national holiday. Today is national candy day!
Candy for all!"
Loud cheers and celebrating.
I wave to all my subjects as my soldiers pass out candy.
Cool. That means I'll have a giant bowl of candy to eat back at the palace.
Just kick off my comfy shoes and relax.
So glad I tossed those dumb red stilettos.
Whatevs.
At least Instagram still works here.
Ciao peeps.
(Photo Credit: Rubber Soul)
By LadyMidnight
"All hail her majesty, the queen of teenagers!"
Oops, that's me.
God, on this planet they act like I'm a god or something.
I snap my gum and step out into the road.
Really?
They are bowing again?
Whatever.
It's better than nothing.
Besides no one ever did that in Kansas.
Seriously.
That tornado was the best day of my life.
Left behind that stinky old farm and became a queen.
Not bad considering I'm not yet 14.
"Speech! Speech!"
Like, really though?
Uggg...
But I suppose if it makes the Munchkins happy.
I'll just pass a few laws and stuff.
" Um.. Hey everyone!"
Loud cheers
"So.. Here's your speech. I am umm.. creating a new national holiday. Today is national candy day!
Candy for all!"
Loud cheers and celebrating.
I wave to all my subjects as my soldiers pass out candy.
Cool. That means I'll have a giant bowl of candy to eat back at the palace.
Just kick off my comfy shoes and relax.
So glad I tossed those dumb red stilettos.
Whatevs.
At least Instagram still works here.
Ciao peeps.
(Photo Credit: Rubber Soul)
I'm a Writer
By dogpoet
I know I am a writer
Because I love to write
It's the thing I (sometimes) know I was meant to do.
I know I am a writer
Because when I play piano
I unconsciously am thinking up stories
About the different notes
And I realise
Once I've played the piece for the millionth time
Halfway through.
I know I am a writer
Because when I do math
I do the same thing
The numbers are my friends
I pity them and rejoice in their joy
The world of algebra
peopled by those friends of mine.
I know I am a writer
Because I sometime narrate my life in my head
Not always
But sometimes.
I know I'm a writer
because occasionaly when someone says something
I add my own ending to their words, to the paragraph in the book that is my life.
I don't know I'm a writer
Because there are so many other wonderfull things to do
And sometimes I get overinthusiastic
And pore all my words out
And there are none left
I don't know I'm I writer
Because there are so many other people who write
In different ways I wouldn't have thought of
I question myslef sometimes.
But I know I'm a writer
When the words come pouring out
And I have to shout
I know
When the words come pouring like the rain
When I think of all the ways
My world is me because of writing
When I think of all the ways
That I'm a writer.
(Photo Credit: irishjayne)
By dogpoet
I know I am a writer
Because I love to write
It's the thing I (sometimes) know I was meant to do.
I know I am a writer
Because when I play piano
I unconsciously am thinking up stories
About the different notes
And I realise
Once I've played the piece for the millionth time
Halfway through.
I know I am a writer
Because when I do math
I do the same thing
The numbers are my friends
I pity them and rejoice in their joy
The world of algebra
peopled by those friends of mine.
I know I am a writer
Because I sometime narrate my life in my head
Not always
But sometimes.
I know I'm a writer
because occasionaly when someone says something
I add my own ending to their words, to the paragraph in the book that is my life.
I don't know I'm a writer
Because there are so many other wonderfull things to do
And sometimes I get overinthusiastic
And pore all my words out
And there are none left
I don't know I'm I writer
Because there are so many other people who write
In different ways I wouldn't have thought of
I question myslef sometimes.
But I know I'm a writer
When the words come pouring out
And I have to shout
I know
When the words come pouring like the rain
When I think of all the ways
My world is me because of writing
When I think of all the ways
That I'm a writer.
(Photo Credit: irishjayne)
DECAF
By Eli
We always meet here.
The waiter comes, I order some coffee
He asks where she is
I say she’s on her way
I can smell her
This place smells of her
She smells of this place
Our memories smell of here
They always will.
I wait.
I finish my coffee and order more; decaf
She always gets decaf, I remember
I don’t want this coffee anymore
I wait.
It’s late.
I leave.
I'd told the waiter she was on her way
(Photo Credit: irishjayne)
By Eli
We always meet here.
The waiter comes, I order some coffee
He asks where she is
I say she’s on her way
I can smell her
This place smells of her
She smells of this place
Our memories smell of here
They always will.
I wait.
I finish my coffee and order more; decaf
She always gets decaf, I remember
I don’t want this coffee anymore
I wait.
It’s late.
I leave.
I'd told the waiter she was on her way
(Photo Credit: irishjayne)
Tiny Writes!
Vote. Do it for those who can't.
-Drift
Some things are right.
Some things are wrong.
My heart can't seem to make up its mind with you.
-nean_bean
If half of it doesn't crumble off when you bite into it,
and cover your shirt,
it isn't a proper croissant.
-Fiona Ella
I don't usually do homework in a furry Russian hat
that's been butchered by scissors,
a gold lamé dress,
black lipstick and sparkly bronze eyeshadow.
Halloween makes everything so strange.
-Fiona Ella
Vote. Do it for those who can't.
-Drift
Some things are right.
Some things are wrong.
My heart can't seem to make up its mind with you.
-nean_bean
If half of it doesn't crumble off when you bite into it,
and cover your shirt,
it isn't a proper croissant.
-Fiona Ella
I don't usually do homework in a furry Russian hat
that's been butchered by scissors,
a gold lamé dress,
black lipstick and sparkly bronze eyeshadow.
Halloween makes everything so strange.
-Fiona Ella
YWP Newsletter - 10. 29. 2018
Driving through town this weekend, leaf-orange pumpkins dotted the roadside porches, steps, and fence posts, grinning jaggedly. Halloween is fast approaching, signaling the end of October, and with it, my month as editor of this newsletter. As I bid farewell to you wonderful readers (until later this year), I've decided to share a personal story of Halloween fright.
My trick or treating days are now done, but when I first moved into my neighborhood, about six years ago, I was very excited to do just that; it's one of those sprawling suburb neighborhoods that trickles out of the city with a gradual lengthening of lawns and heightening of trees that requires several miles to become "the country". My friend and I brainstormed our costumes far in advance, and finally decided on animals named after Halloween creatures; a Vampire bat and a Ghost shrimp. On Halloween night, I dressed in my large white hoodie with six ghostly shrimp legs attached, topped off with large goggling eyes and twirling blue antennae on the hood. I also carried a sign that said "Boo!", so I wasn't mistaken as merely an uncooked shrimp. We set off into the dark, windy night and began our search for sugar. Once we had been up and down several streets, and were almost at the end of yet another. My friend and I confidently mounted the steps and rang the doorbell of the gray-shuttered house at the end of the street. The door opened briskly, revealing a smiling face in the glow. All at once another face peered around the door, wearing a wrinkly rust-colored mask. I yelped in fear, then fled their porch and back to my chuckling parents. My heart still racing, I was reluctant to try another house, but my friend insisted. Once again, we rang the doorbell. The door opened, and a young women kindly extended an orange candy bowl. I was about to take a piece, when a shadow fell across the doorway. That hideous mask fresh in my mind, I scrambled backward and poised to flee....from a little girl in pink pajamas, come to help her mom hand out treats. It was deeply embarrassing then, but now I only laugh. Have fun this Halloween, and bring back some fun stories to share with us!
As usual, the following is an intro to the YWP Newsletter for new readers. Feel free to skip ahead if you're a regular.
Welcome to the YWP Newsletter, curated and created by a team of Community Leaders, who, along with many others, Recommend work for Publication, Create Challenges, give feedback, and do some writing of our own! This Newsletter is a highlight of our favorite work from each week, creative, insightful, entertaining...we aim for variety to reflect and engage that of the many writers, artists, photographers and musicians of YWP. We, as the editors, hope to give these creators a wider audience, provide our busy members a taste of each week's pieces, and share some of the pieces we particularly loved with you. Please become a returning reader: Check out the other Newsletters, and share the link with others who may enjoy it.
This issue features the creations of: _Eliza_Be_Ghostly_13, Dancer, diopj, irishjayne, JuliaR, Love to write, Maisie N, Rovva, Rubber Soul, and The Young Poet
YWP HAPPENINGS:
November 15: Climate Open Mic - All are Welcome! - Come share environmentally - themed words and art, then collaborate with fellow creators to speak out for our planet. I hope to see you there!
Check out YWP Events 2018-19 for more information on this Special SoundCheck, and other ongoing opportunities.
( Photo Credit: Love to write )
By JuliaR
I am a pumpkin
my insides have been harvested
and my eyes and expression
have been carved into straight sharp lines
by knives.
Every time it rains the sky like a light switch
flicks off
and my carved lips
start to rot away
pushed on by the darkness.
I am hollow
a hole waiting to be filled with something
or by someone.
A pumpkin waiting for winter to come
and take me away.
(Photo Credit: Dancer )
I am a pumpkin
my insides have been harvested
and my eyes and expression
have been carved into straight sharp lines
by knives.
Every time it rains the sky like a light switch
flicks off
and my carved lips
start to rot away
pushed on by the darkness.
I am hollow
a hole waiting to be filled with something
or by someone.
A pumpkin waiting for winter to come
and take me away.
(Photo Credit: Dancer )
By Maisie N
Beautiful and unusual
You, a moonshine monster
Open your lips to the heavens
And tell me which it is you dread more
As you howl out your solemn question
Is it the echo or the answer?
Would you rather know that you are alone
Or live wondering what is out there?
I will live as a map on your wall
That you fill with red pushpins and stickers
Marking all of the places you have dreamt of
From the back of a pickup truck in September
On the nights that you barely remember living
Filled with good company and crisp autumn air
Take me with you wherever you go
Whether to the edge of town or the end of the world.
So tell me is this a simple seasonal change?
Or are the trees truly catching fire?
The leaves drift so easily to the ground
While I always seem to fall much harder
Bare branches are all you seem to see
No nuance, no heart to the picture
No need for disguises on Halloween
If you will let me live to see October.
Snowflakes fall and collect on the ground
Burrying the taste and feel of summer
Frozen landscapes etched into the horizon
The unforgiving permanence of November
A blanket and a bottle to keep you warm
A photograph you hope never to remember
Tonight the moon is entirely invisible
But the stars will always be there.
I swear there are times I wish I had not met you
Knowing how hard you will be to forget
I hold you in the creases of my palm
Untouchable within my iron fist
A garden sprouts between my fingers
With nothing but moonlight to nurture it
These are the outcomes I must consider
Before I answer your haunting question.
( Photo Credit: Love to write )
Beautiful and unusual
You, a moonshine monster
Open your lips to the heavens
And tell me which it is you dread more
As you howl out your solemn question
Is it the echo or the answer?
Would you rather know that you are alone
Or live wondering what is out there?
I will live as a map on your wall
That you fill with red pushpins and stickers
Marking all of the places you have dreamt of
From the back of a pickup truck in September
On the nights that you barely remember living
Filled with good company and crisp autumn air
Take me with you wherever you go
Whether to the edge of town or the end of the world.
So tell me is this a simple seasonal change?
Or are the trees truly catching fire?
The leaves drift so easily to the ground
While I always seem to fall much harder
Bare branches are all you seem to see
No nuance, no heart to the picture
No need for disguises on Halloween
If you will let me live to see October.
Snowflakes fall and collect on the ground
Burrying the taste and feel of summer
Frozen landscapes etched into the horizon
The unforgiving permanence of November
A blanket and a bottle to keep you warm
A photograph you hope never to remember
Tonight the moon is entirely invisible
But the stars will always be there.
I swear there are times I wish I had not met you
Knowing how hard you will be to forget
I hold you in the creases of my palm
Untouchable within my iron fist
A garden sprouts between my fingers
With nothing but moonlight to nurture it
These are the outcomes I must consider
Before I answer your haunting question.
( Photo Credit: Love to write )
By diopj
The shiver will run through your bones,
Past your skin,
And grab your lungs.
Down the hatch, It's cold song goes
Pulling open its rusty jaw
And letting out a symphony of screams.
Don’t cry for help young sailor boy,
You hummed the tune that lured It out,
Each note deepening your grave.
Your tears salt the monsters meat,
Your bones add texture to the meal,
It never kills or cooks its food, I wants to hear you squeal.
Feel the crunching of your ribs,
Feel the blood drip, drop, and drain from your heart,
Unless the song can restart.
Cause when you, sailor boy, hummed It’s tune,
Sang a song that belonged to It,
A cold chill ran through It’s scales,
And It rose from the pit.
Vengeance for the song you stole,
Vengeance is all It craves,
And now that I’ve found you,
I’ll sing you a lullaby as you lay in your grave.
( Photo Credit: irishjayne )
The shiver will run through your bones,
Past your skin,
And grab your lungs.
Down the hatch, It's cold song goes
Pulling open its rusty jaw
And letting out a symphony of screams.
Don’t cry for help young sailor boy,
You hummed the tune that lured It out,
Each note deepening your grave.
Your tears salt the monsters meat,
Your bones add texture to the meal,
It never kills or cooks its food, I wants to hear you squeal.
Feel the crunching of your ribs,
Feel the blood drip, drop, and drain from your heart,
Unless the song can restart.
Cause when you, sailor boy, hummed It’s tune,
Sang a song that belonged to It,
A cold chill ran through It’s scales,
And It rose from the pit.
Vengeance for the song you stole,
Vengeance is all It craves,
And now that I’ve found you,
I’ll sing you a lullaby as you lay in your grave.
( Photo Credit: irishjayne )
Tiny Writes
Even as our planet dies,
trees falling,
little girl cries,
The Robin
still sings
- _Eliza_Be_Ghostly_13
I'd heard your name before.
If I'd spared a glance,
I think I'd be a different person.
- Rovva
Sitting in this quiet room,
All I can think about is you.
Hearing the clicking of the keys,
They echo out your name to me.
Knowing you're not next to me this time,
Why can I still feel your hand in mine?
- The Young Poet
It's raining dreams
I wonder who they belong to
And why they dreamed the things they did.
I let the dreams fall onto my face
And know that I shall be a second-hand dreamer tonight.
-Rubber Soul
Even as our planet dies,
trees falling,
little girl cries,
The Robin
still sings
- _Eliza_Be_Ghostly_13
I'd heard your name before.
If I'd spared a glance,
I think I'd be a different person.
- Rovva
Sitting in this quiet room,
All I can think about is you.
Hearing the clicking of the keys,
They echo out your name to me.
Knowing you're not next to me this time,
Why can I still feel your hand in mine?
- The Young Poet
It's raining dreams
I wonder who they belong to
And why they dreamed the things they did.
I let the dreams fall onto my face
And know that I shall be a second-hand dreamer tonight.
-Rubber Soul
YWP Newsletter - 10. 22. 2018
This Tuesday, I stuck to my promise of taking the hour long bus ride home, to be dropped off last, rather than walking the 3/4 of mile uphill road to my house, which my bus so conviently passes by only fifteen minutes into my ride. I'd taken this quicker, if slightly more dangerous route, for most of the past school year, but my parents had begun to worry about my safety. That afternoon as I boarded the bus, I had changed my usual "I'd like to walk, if that's alright." to "I'm going to ride all the way today." My bus driver raised his eyebrows slightly, confused, at first; my walking had become a familiar routine. I quickly explained, then settled in for the long ride, trying to figure out what homework I could do on the bus, and how I was going to get everything done with this delay. Realizing I'd need a computer for almost all my assingments, I was about to pull out a book when I noticed were off the usual route, and heading towards my road from the other direction. We pulled up at my driveway, and I got up, smiling. "Have the routes changed?" I asked the driver. "No, I did it for you." After thanking him warmly, I hurried towards my house, excited to be home so soon, and still smiling. I don't know if he realized, but my bus driver made my week. To be stressed and worried, then out of the blue, have someone who owes me nothing do something so genuinely kind, was absolutely amazing. Bus drivers can be extremely undervalued, but they are responsible for safely transporting dozens of students everyday. They get a quick "Thank you" as we rush out the door, but they deserve so much more. Let's remember that everyone's job is important, and appreciate the part they play in our lives. Below this week, and all the others, are pieces that I appreciate; for their creativity, beauty, strength, and messages.
As usual, the following is an intro to the YWP Newsletter for new readers. Feel free to skip ahead if you're a regular.
Welcome to the YWP Newsletter, curated and created by a team of Community Leaders, who, along with many others, Recommend work for Publication, Create Challenges, give feedback, and do some writing of our own! This Newsletter is a highlight of our favorite work from each week, creative, insightful, entertaining...we aim for variety to reflect and engage that of the many writers, artists, photographers and musicians of YWP. We, as the editors, hope to give these creators a wider audience, provide our busy members a taste of each week's pieces, and share some of the pieces we particularly loved with you. Please become a returning reader: Check out the other Newsletters, and share the link with others who may enjoy it.
This issue features the creations of: Abriatis, Aidster21, Alaina.J_27, k.diagle, Kittykatruff, lia.chien, Love to write, Maisie N., sophie.d,
YWP HAPPENINGS:
Next SoundCheck - November 15: Environmentally Themed - Check back next week for more info.
Poetry Experience Workshop with Rajnii Eddins - THIS Saturday, 1 - 3pm, Fletcher Free Library, Burlington
Poetry Riot - October 24th; see YWP Events 2018-19 for more information on this event and others.
By Maisie N.
Ink on her skin
Fire in her veins
But it was the look in her eyes
That gave her away
She gets what she wants
Without any debate
You could count her lovers
But they are one and the same.
Show me that her youth is only temporary
And that I am no different from her
Blame it on what each of us was wearing
Say we got what we deserved.
What kind of girl would walk the streets alone?
The both of us should know better
Than to feel safe in our own homes
Than to be unafraid of the dark.
His fingernails left crescent moons
Glaring bright red against my pale forearm
Her scars blended in with her tatoos
While mine live on-- a constant reminder
Remorse and rumors surround us two
With neither of us knowing of the other
Complicit in a crime we did not choose
Silent in what makes us similar.
Tell her that she is far too pretty
To be at a bar all alone
Tell me that I should have thought
Before I went out running without my phone
Tell her that her tatoos make her look 'easy'
Tell me I should not wear shorts in June
Tell us whatever you need to hear
To believe that there is nothing that you can do.
If I could tell you how it felt
If she could make you understand
That this is what we mean when we say
That it is hard to be a woman
Because you write us off so easily
With a harsh word and a wave of your hand
Call us sluts or ignorant teens
And resent us for our resillience.
Me and her have nothing in common
Nothing except for people like you
The fear that it might happen again
Solidarity in unspoken, undeniable truths
We would not choose to be the victims
In the center of this dispute
But sometimes you have to make sacrifices
Because it can happen to anyone... even you.
( Photo Credit: Love to write )
Ink on her skin
Fire in her veins
But it was the look in her eyes
That gave her away
She gets what she wants
Without any debate
You could count her lovers
But they are one and the same.
Show me that her youth is only temporary
And that I am no different from her
Blame it on what each of us was wearing
Say we got what we deserved.
What kind of girl would walk the streets alone?
The both of us should know better
Than to feel safe in our own homes
Than to be unafraid of the dark.
His fingernails left crescent moons
Glaring bright red against my pale forearm
Her scars blended in with her tatoos
While mine live on-- a constant reminder
Remorse and rumors surround us two
With neither of us knowing of the other
Complicit in a crime we did not choose
Silent in what makes us similar.
Tell her that she is far too pretty
To be at a bar all alone
Tell me that I should have thought
Before I went out running without my phone
Tell her that her tatoos make her look 'easy'
Tell me I should not wear shorts in June
Tell us whatever you need to hear
To believe that there is nothing that you can do.
If I could tell you how it felt
If she could make you understand
That this is what we mean when we say
That it is hard to be a woman
Because you write us off so easily
With a harsh word and a wave of your hand
Call us sluts or ignorant teens
And resent us for our resillience.
Me and her have nothing in common
Nothing except for people like you
The fear that it might happen again
Solidarity in unspoken, undeniable truths
We would not choose to be the victims
In the center of this dispute
But sometimes you have to make sacrifices
Because it can happen to anyone... even you.
( Photo Credit: Love to write )
By Alaina.J_27
I pop off the top of my scalp
like the top of a cookie jar.
It's the secret place
where I keep all my dreams.
Little balls of sunshine,
bouncing around like
a little bundle of kittens.
I reach inside with my
thumb and forefinger
and pluck one out.
It is warm,
radiating with potential.
I quickly put it in the bottle to keep it safe.
And I put that bottle on the self
with all the others.
Happy thoughts, sad thoughts,
angry thoughts, cool thoughts.
All those thoughts,
safely put in bottles,
lined up in a row.
My collection helps me help my friends.
Each bottle a starlight to make amends.
Sometimes my friend feels a certain way;
Down comes a bottle to save the day.
Night after night,
more and more dreams.
Friend after friend,
stranger after stranger,
down come more bottles.
Deeper and deeper my bare nails go;
like exploring a cave,
discovering the secrets hiding in the
nooks and crannies.
Digging and digging.
Scraping and scraping.
I blow dust off my bottle caps.
It doesn't feel like time elapsed.
My empty shelf could use some more.
My friends look through my locked front door.
Finally, all done.
I open up and in come my friends.
in they come, in such a hurry.
Do they want my bottles that much?
I frantically pull them from the shelf,
one after the other.
Holding them out to each and every person.
Each and every bottle.
But every time I let one go,
it shatters against the wood beneath my feet.
Happy thoughts, happy thoughts,
happy thoughts all in shards scattered on the floor.
They were supposed to be for my friends.
My friends who aren't smiling.
They're all shouting, yelling, screaming.
Now I realize that they weren't
my friends at all.
They just acted like it.
They were fake.
I thought they were real.
I told them my secrets,
let them into my dreams,
gave them happy thoughts
when they weren't happy.
But none of it was real.
I poured my heart and soul
into those bottles,
to help, my friends.
But they weren't my friends.
They weren't true friends.
And I will never let myself
make that same mistake again.
Now all that there remains
are the broken pieces of my heart
on the floor,
blending in with the shards
of shattered glass,
glinting in the sunlight,
like the deadly weapon it can be.
( Art Credit: Aidster21 )
I pop off the top of my scalp
like the top of a cookie jar.
It's the secret place
where I keep all my dreams.
Little balls of sunshine,
bouncing around like
a little bundle of kittens.
I reach inside with my
thumb and forefinger
and pluck one out.
It is warm,
radiating with potential.
I quickly put it in the bottle to keep it safe.
And I put that bottle on the self
with all the others.
Happy thoughts, sad thoughts,
angry thoughts, cool thoughts.
All those thoughts,
safely put in bottles,
lined up in a row.
My collection helps me help my friends.
Each bottle a starlight to make amends.
Sometimes my friend feels a certain way;
Down comes a bottle to save the day.
Night after night,
more and more dreams.
Friend after friend,
stranger after stranger,
down come more bottles.
Deeper and deeper my bare nails go;
like exploring a cave,
discovering the secrets hiding in the
nooks and crannies.
Digging and digging.
Scraping and scraping.
I blow dust off my bottle caps.
It doesn't feel like time elapsed.
My empty shelf could use some more.
My friends look through my locked front door.
Finally, all done.
I open up and in come my friends.
in they come, in such a hurry.
Do they want my bottles that much?
I frantically pull them from the shelf,
one after the other.
Holding them out to each and every person.
Each and every bottle.
But every time I let one go,
it shatters against the wood beneath my feet.
Happy thoughts, happy thoughts,
happy thoughts all in shards scattered on the floor.
They were supposed to be for my friends.
My friends who aren't smiling.
They're all shouting, yelling, screaming.
Now I realize that they weren't
my friends at all.
They just acted like it.
They were fake.
I thought they were real.
I told them my secrets,
let them into my dreams,
gave them happy thoughts
when they weren't happy.
But none of it was real.
I poured my heart and soul
into those bottles,
to help, my friends.
But they weren't my friends.
They weren't true friends.
And I will never let myself
make that same mistake again.
Now all that there remains
are the broken pieces of my heart
on the floor,
blending in with the shards
of shattered glass,
glinting in the sunlight,
like the deadly weapon it can be.
( Art Credit: Aidster21 )
By sophie.d
I'm furious
And that's saying a lot for me
And I'm tired
Of this fight of climate and corporations
Oil and overheating
Melting and methane
Of people who care
Scrapping at the outskirts
Of climate power.
And I'm 16
And like to cross country ski
In the woods behind my house
But when I'm 36
When I want to hike with my kids
In the woods
I'm afraid
There won't be any trees
When I want to teach them to ski
I'm afraid
There won't be any snow
And when I want to teach them
To protect this earth
I'm afraid
There will be nothing left to save.
But I can't reach through time
And guarantee those
Human rights will exist
20 years from now
I can't grab the world
With an outstretched arm
And paint it green again.
I'm 16
With ample years ahead of me
With ample passion and ideas
Burning in my chest
But I don't have a US flag pinned
To my suit jacket
I don't have an oil company
Under my name.
And I don't have the power
To force a better future
Upon us all.
I can't change the future
But I can't silence my qualms
I can't ignore the ground trembling below me
But I can change the present.
Each moment
Holds an opportunity
To give back to the land
That has given us
Our pass of life.
Each moment
Tells a story
Of the individual
Struggling to create
Change within
Their own little world
Each little world touches
A million other worlds
In each lifetime
And so I believe
A movement can sprout
Lasting change can take root
The caring unite
On a quest to save a planet.
And so,
I stand in the cafeteria
On the first day of school
And tell people whose names I don't even know
"The wax paper is actually compostable,"
I show up with
Sticky notes in a color-coded
Planner coated
In last nights
Climate project ideas.
I'm 16
And I write poetry
I lead meetings
I raise my voice
Even if I'm uncomfortable
People are shouting over me
Or no one is listening
For the earth cannot speak for itself.
I'm 16 and this is my world
Not just today
Not just tomorrow
But for a lifetime
And this is your world too
I challenge you all
To step up
And change it.
We the people
Of the United States of America
Are angry.
Demand justice
Demand peace
Demand the action
Our planet deserves.
We the people
Of the climate movement
Are taking the earth back.
I'm 16
And I raise my voice
For the future
And I invite you
To join me.
( Photo Credit: lia.chien )
I'm furious
And that's saying a lot for me
And I'm tired
Of this fight of climate and corporations
Oil and overheating
Melting and methane
Of people who care
Scrapping at the outskirts
Of climate power.
And I'm 16
And like to cross country ski
In the woods behind my house
But when I'm 36
When I want to hike with my kids
In the woods
I'm afraid
There won't be any trees
When I want to teach them to ski
I'm afraid
There won't be any snow
And when I want to teach them
To protect this earth
I'm afraid
There will be nothing left to save.
But I can't reach through time
And guarantee those
Human rights will exist
20 years from now
I can't grab the world
With an outstretched arm
And paint it green again.
I'm 16
With ample years ahead of me
With ample passion and ideas
Burning in my chest
But I don't have a US flag pinned
To my suit jacket
I don't have an oil company
Under my name.
And I don't have the power
To force a better future
Upon us all.
I can't change the future
But I can't silence my qualms
I can't ignore the ground trembling below me
But I can change the present.
Each moment
Holds an opportunity
To give back to the land
That has given us
Our pass of life.
Each moment
Tells a story
Of the individual
Struggling to create
Change within
Their own little world
Each little world touches
A million other worlds
In each lifetime
And so I believe
A movement can sprout
Lasting change can take root
The caring unite
On a quest to save a planet.
And so,
I stand in the cafeteria
On the first day of school
And tell people whose names I don't even know
"The wax paper is actually compostable,"
I show up with
Sticky notes in a color-coded
Planner coated
In last nights
Climate project ideas.
I'm 16
And I write poetry
I lead meetings
I raise my voice
Even if I'm uncomfortable
People are shouting over me
Or no one is listening
For the earth cannot speak for itself.
I'm 16 and this is my world
Not just today
Not just tomorrow
But for a lifetime
And this is your world too
I challenge you all
To step up
And change it.
We the people
Of the United States of America
Are angry.
Demand justice
Demand peace
Demand the action
Our planet deserves.
We the people
Of the climate movement
Are taking the earth back.
I'm 16
And I raise my voice
For the future
And I invite you
To join me.
( Photo Credit: lia.chien )
Tiny Writes
She fed everything to the fire she loved to the fire.
Including herself. - Abriatis "
"Today, the wind blew so hard
It knocked my thoughts
Right off their feet." - Kittykatruff
You took the sun with you when you left.
The day is lighter at night than at noon.
I thought you took my heart in your theft
but now I love the stars and the moon.
- k.daigle
She fed everything to the fire she loved to the fire.
Including herself. - Abriatis "
"Today, the wind blew so hard
It knocked my thoughts
Right off their feet." - Kittykatruff
You took the sun with you when you left.
The day is lighter at night than at noon.
I thought you took my heart in your theft
but now I love the stars and the moon.
- k.daigle
YWP Newsletter - 10. 15. 2018
This photo, and the accompanying story, was taken by Geoffrey Gevalt - founder and builder of the Young Writers Project - whom Anthology 9 is dedicated to. Thank you Geoffrey for creating this incredible space for young dreamers, believers, and creators to find themselves as I, and so many others have.
School weeks are always busy. Some days feel like a frenzied game of hopscotch; from classes, to clubs, to jobs, internships sports....however we choose to/must spend the finite number of hours in each day. In one of the few moments between one far-flung, slippery square and another, I stood outside admiring the multitude of subtlety-layed clouds. It began to rain, the clear drops soaking deep into my sweater. I pulled out a raincoat, of course: I had places to be soon, dry places, where I couldn't’t be waterlogged. Then, with the droplets pattering pleasantly on the nylon, I lifted my face to the sky, closed my eyes, and welcomed the rain. Sunday evening, I remembered this moment, while enjoying performances by several of the many talented young writers published in the 9th YWP Anthology. Standing in that room, listening to your words, and surrounded by so many passionate creators, I felt the same melding of happiness, peace, and hope that was brought by a cleansing rain. This week, I chose pieces that to me express a similar emersion, and rejoicing, in one’s surroundings, a feeling I wanted to share. For those who are searching for serenity in a storm; I hope you are also able to find clarity in the rain. If not, don’t be afraid to splash in the puddles before the sun melts them away.
As usual, the following is an intro to the YWP Newsletter for new readers. Feel free to skip ahead if you're a regular.
Welcome to the YWP Newsletter, curated and created by a team of Community Leaders, who, along with many others, Recommend work for Publication, Create Challenges, give feedback, and do some writing of our own! This Newsletter is a highlight of our favorite work from each week, creative, insightful, entertaining...we aim for variety to reflect and engage that of the many writers, artists, photographers and musicians of YWP. We, as the editors, hope to give these creators a wider audience, provide our busy members a taste of each week's pieces, and share some of the pieces we particularly loved with you. Please become a returning reader: Check out the other Newsletters, and share the link with others who may enjoy it.
This issue features the creations of: Aidster21, Fiona Ella, Hope_for_the_future, Icestorm, irishjayne, Love to write, Rubber Soul, sophie.d, and ZAP
YOUNG WRITERS PROJECT HAPPENINGS:
Voices of Color Showcase - THIS MONDAY NIGHT, at the Lamp Shop
SoundCheck - THIS THURSDAY, October 18, 6 - 8pm
Poetry Experience Workshop with Rajnii Eddins - THIS Saturday, 1 - 3pm, Fletcher Free Library, Burlington
Poetry Riot - October 24th; see YWP Events 2018-19 for more information on this event and others.
By Hope_for_the_future
Make it simple
for me please
all I know is extreme
Nothing
about me
is simple
I don't see
I feel the leaves falling
I don't notice
the water. I am the water
so please make it
simple for me
my mind is pulling
towards insanity
(Art Credit: Aidster21 )
Make it simple
for me please
all I know is extreme
Nothing
about me
is simple
I don't see
I feel the leaves falling
I don't notice
the water. I am the water
so please make it
simple for me
my mind is pulling
towards insanity
(Art Credit: Aidster21 )
By sophie.d
In a muddy gray car
On a thirsty dirt road
She drives with no destination in mind.
The last drops of
Balmy air whip her hair
Into a thorny halo
And guitar-rich music
Trails behind the car.
Sweetness diffuses into
Her nose
Along with hints
Of ripening leaves
Distant cow manure
And a future pumpkin patch
(She smells her mom in the kitchen).
The sun is hovering
Somewhere over a golden lake
But she can't keep her eyes
Off the pink-streaked sky
Set over the orange speckled hills-
A crown atop a queen.
She's afraid she won't
stay on the road
As beauty hijacks her senses
But she doesn't care
Because she has nowhere to go but
Where the sky leads her.
The leaves skip from their branches
The sun melts into the lake
The last popsicle of the season.
She turns off the engine
Climbs onto the roof of the car
And screams her farewell to summer
Her greetings to fall.
Lost on a deserted road
Lost amongst the seasons
She gets in her car
And drives.
(Photo Credit: Icestorm )
In a muddy gray car
On a thirsty dirt road
She drives with no destination in mind.
The last drops of
Balmy air whip her hair
Into a thorny halo
And guitar-rich music
Trails behind the car.
Sweetness diffuses into
Her nose
Along with hints
Of ripening leaves
Distant cow manure
And a future pumpkin patch
(She smells her mom in the kitchen).
The sun is hovering
Somewhere over a golden lake
But she can't keep her eyes
Off the pink-streaked sky
Set over the orange speckled hills-
A crown atop a queen.
She's afraid she won't
stay on the road
As beauty hijacks her senses
But she doesn't care
Because she has nowhere to go but
Where the sky leads her.
The leaves skip from their branches
The sun melts into the lake
The last popsicle of the season.
She turns off the engine
Climbs onto the roof of the car
And screams her farewell to summer
Her greetings to fall.
Lost on a deserted road
Lost amongst the seasons
She gets in her car
And drives.
(Photo Credit: Icestorm )
By ZAP
I stand on the uneven slope and breathe in, feeling the crisp air fill my lungs. Today is the day, I thought. The day of change. I am the last one this year. All day, I will stand in the meadow, breathing in and out, in and out, until my mind is filled with only the rhythm of my breath. Then I will change. My feet will go first, bare toes lengthening and hardening into roots of all sizes and shapes. Then my legs, morphing together and growing into a long trunk. After that, my torso, solidifying into maple wood. My arms will raise, leafy branches reaching up to the last rays of sun in the skies. My closed eyes become wood, hair growing into twigs and leaves. I can’t see, but that does not bother me. I am intune with Mother Nature. I feel her heartbeat. I sense her love for all the things from the earth. The world is quiet. I sleep. For how long, I don’t know. Then, sometime in February, a presence awakens me. I know the cold, I know it’s there, but I don’t feel it. A little girl wraps her arms around me, and I am content. She breathes deeply, then run to a man with buckets in his arms. That one, I feel her say, pointing at me, That one. Maybe, he replies, it’s only just big enough. I feel a gentle tapping against where my kneecap should be, and it tickles, ever so slightly. I know the man is putting a tap in me, but I don’t mind. The little girl returns with the man every other day, for a couple of weeks. After the sap stops flowing, they come to retrieve the bucket and tap. I sleep. I wake when the sun shines enough to warm the air, and I turn back, head, arms, torso, legs, feet. For the rest of the day, I stand on the uneven slope and breathe.
( Photo Credit: Love to write )
I stand on the uneven slope and breathe in, feeling the crisp air fill my lungs. Today is the day, I thought. The day of change. I am the last one this year. All day, I will stand in the meadow, breathing in and out, in and out, until my mind is filled with only the rhythm of my breath. Then I will change. My feet will go first, bare toes lengthening and hardening into roots of all sizes and shapes. Then my legs, morphing together and growing into a long trunk. After that, my torso, solidifying into maple wood. My arms will raise, leafy branches reaching up to the last rays of sun in the skies. My closed eyes become wood, hair growing into twigs and leaves. I can’t see, but that does not bother me. I am intune with Mother Nature. I feel her heartbeat. I sense her love for all the things from the earth. The world is quiet. I sleep. For how long, I don’t know. Then, sometime in February, a presence awakens me. I know the cold, I know it’s there, but I don’t feel it. A little girl wraps her arms around me, and I am content. She breathes deeply, then run to a man with buckets in his arms. That one, I feel her say, pointing at me, That one. Maybe, he replies, it’s only just big enough. I feel a gentle tapping against where my kneecap should be, and it tickles, ever so slightly. I know the man is putting a tap in me, but I don’t mind. The little girl returns with the man every other day, for a couple of weeks. After the sap stops flowing, they come to retrieve the bucket and tap. I sleep. I wake when the sun shines enough to warm the air, and I turn back, head, arms, torso, legs, feet. For the rest of the day, I stand on the uneven slope and breathe.
( Photo Credit: Love to write )
Tiny Writes
They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but words can also create millions of pictures. Of recent, less photos and art has been shared, but writing, tiny and otherwise, is thriving. For this reason, I am substituting the Photo Gallery with multiple tiny writes. Enjoy these words of wisdom, reflections, ideas, wonderings...
If you start each day with the thought, "this might be the day I die," then you might be prepared for when it IS the day you die. But if you start each day with the thought, "today I am going to live," then you will be prepared for all of the days leading up to your last moments. You will have so many more days that will consist of you living than of you dying. So start you morning with a thought of life that will be the seed to the flower of your day. - Rubber Soul
I went to bed fifteen, and woke up sixteen. I think I expected my heart to beat differently; to my disappointment, it was just as quiet as it had always been. - irishjayne
There's a voice in my head that narrates everything I see. In the depths of emotion, the voice still tries to put a narrative spin on everything. I've always condemned it as a sign of egotism, of pretentious, that it meant what I was feeling was fake. Maybe I should try and accept that it's just there because I can't turn off being a storyteller. -Fiona Ella
YWP Newsletter 10. 08. 2018
The perplexing traffic that seems to strike at the oddest times, such as 1 o'clock this Saturday, indicates that leaf-peeping season in Vermont has begun. As the fiery foliage begins to show, so, for many of us, does the school work. While selecting work for this Newsletter, I noticed that many writers were feeling discouraged, tired, or generally overwhelmed; feelings I wholeheartedly experienced multiple times last week. I admit, at the end of a crazy week, putting this together felt like another item to check of my list. Until I began reading all of your wonderful work, and found that not only do many of you share my experience, but you are expressing them in some truly beautiful writing. I was reminded that writing should be a refuge, not a responsibility. To any of you who feel like you're running an endless marthon held by the education system, I get it, but still try to find time for the things you love, even just five minutes, a quick haiku or sketch, will help refresh your mind for the next mile.
As usual, the following is an intro to the YWP Newsletter for new readers. Feel free to skip ahead if you're a regular.
Welcome to the YWP Newsletter, curated and created by a team of Community Leaders, who, along with many others, Recommend work for Publication, Create Challenges, give feedback, and do some writing of our own! This Newsletter is a highlight of our favorite work from each week, creative, insightful, entertaining...we aim for variety to reflect and engage that of the many writers, artists, photographers and musicians of YWP. We, as the editors, hope to give these creators a wider audience, provide our busy members a taste of each week's pieces, and share some of the pieces we particularly loved with you. Please become a returning reader: Check out the other Newsletters, and share the link with others who may enjoy it.
This issue features the creations of: adalet, cholen, écrivain, irishjayne, lia.chien, Love to write, and neanbean .
YOUNG WRITERS PROJECT HAPPENINGS:
Anthology 9 Celebration - This Sunday!
Playwriting Workshop with Geoffrey - Still Time to Sign up!
Next SoundCheck - October 18
Poetry Riot - October 24th; see YWP Events 2018-19 for more information on this event, and on other reoccurring opportunities including next week's Voices of Color Showcase, and the upcoming Poetry Experience workshop.
( Heading Photo Credit: irishjayne )
By irishjayne
sunday is for lying
in my pink bed,
staring at the ceiling,
my room
reddened by bouncing rays
of light,
turning the color of autumn leaves,
as the Cranberries sing about
zombies and
dreams and
you and me
into my ears.
sunday is
undone algebra growing
cold as the hours pass
as I lay instead of working and
the sun sets,
anxiety like boiling
water bubbling
under my skin,
unanswered phone calls
understood things that
still sting,
false apologies and
lies,
eyes squeezed
shut,
world tuned
out.
sunday is the shadow
of the lantern hanging from my window,
moving gently like a
setting moon,
eyes playing childish tricks
bigger
smaller
bigger
glowing
gone,
creamy white ceiling left
untouched.
a transformed
sunday circle
lazily drifting by
as my world
melts.
( Photo Credit: lia.chien )
sunday is for lying
in my pink bed,
staring at the ceiling,
my room
reddened by bouncing rays
of light,
turning the color of autumn leaves,
as the Cranberries sing about
zombies and
dreams and
you and me
into my ears.
sunday is
undone algebra growing
cold as the hours pass
as I lay instead of working and
the sun sets,
anxiety like boiling
water bubbling
under my skin,
unanswered phone calls
understood things that
still sting,
false apologies and
lies,
eyes squeezed
shut,
world tuned
out.
sunday is the shadow
of the lantern hanging from my window,
moving gently like a
setting moon,
eyes playing childish tricks
bigger
smaller
bigger
glowing
gone,
creamy white ceiling left
untouched.
a transformed
sunday circle
lazily drifting by
as my world
melts.
( Photo Credit: lia.chien )
By adalet
i carry
my past in my shoulders
and my caution
in the knots in my stomach
my exhaustion lives in
the arches of my feet
and the space behind my eyes
i hold empathy in my chest,
hidden behind my lungs,
where you'll find my secrets
i carry my stress in my spine
and my anger
in the bottom of my stomach
in my hands,
my health in my fingertips and
ambition in my knuckles and
creation in my palms
i carry my own story and
it lives within my skin,
waiting to be heard,
waiting to be told
( Photo Credit: Love to write )
i carry
my past in my shoulders
and my caution
in the knots in my stomach
my exhaustion lives in
the arches of my feet
and the space behind my eyes
i hold empathy in my chest,
hidden behind my lungs,
where you'll find my secrets
i carry my stress in my spine
and my anger
in the bottom of my stomach
in my hands,
my health in my fingertips and
ambition in my knuckles and
creation in my palms
i carry my own story and
it lives within my skin,
waiting to be heard,
waiting to be told
( Photo Credit: Love to write )
By écrivain
i have never found myself in poetry,
but i think i may have found myself in your arms
as we sit in your kitchen, waiting for the kettle;
your soft eyes and parted lips, sculpted by aphrodite
as you silently boil the water.
you have careful fingers as you pour the hot water
into two red, chipped mugs. i remember the
gentle pressure of those fingers twisted in my hair.
curled green leaves lay with small jamsmine flowers,
pearlescent petals floating delicate in the mug.
how sweet this vanilla air is, and for a vivid moment,
you have the effervescent beauty of a thunderous
splinter of forked lightening.
i sip carefully, hoping not to burn my lips,
as tentative as the manner in which i reach
for your hand in the dark. my mouth burns
with the taste of green tea and sugar.
(but i wish it was burning with the taste of your lips)
i like milk and sugar in my tea, but you don't.
you like a spoonful of honey, golden and warm
spilling over the sides of the cup;
sticky and sweet. (i find myself completely and
utterly in love with you, my dear.)
and my favorite thing in the world
is bringing you a mug of tea early in the morning
when you're still foggy with sleep, the finality
of you dreams creeping up slowly-- but
for at least a moment, a faint memory remains.
there's a worried crack in my lip, split between my front teeth
and you tell me that it's nothing a cup of tea can't fix,
and i realize this may be the most i have ever thought about tea.
( Photo Credit: chloen )
i have never found myself in poetry,
but i think i may have found myself in your arms
as we sit in your kitchen, waiting for the kettle;
your soft eyes and parted lips, sculpted by aphrodite
as you silently boil the water.
you have careful fingers as you pour the hot water
into two red, chipped mugs. i remember the
gentle pressure of those fingers twisted in my hair.
curled green leaves lay with small jamsmine flowers,
pearlescent petals floating delicate in the mug.
how sweet this vanilla air is, and for a vivid moment,
you have the effervescent beauty of a thunderous
splinter of forked lightening.
i sip carefully, hoping not to burn my lips,
as tentative as the manner in which i reach
for your hand in the dark. my mouth burns
with the taste of green tea and sugar.
(but i wish it was burning with the taste of your lips)
i like milk and sugar in my tea, but you don't.
you like a spoonful of honey, golden and warm
spilling over the sides of the cup;
sticky and sweet. (i find myself completely and
utterly in love with you, my dear.)
and my favorite thing in the world
is bringing you a mug of tea early in the morning
when you're still foggy with sleep, the finality
of you dreams creeping up slowly-- but
for at least a moment, a faint memory remains.
there's a worried crack in my lip, split between my front teeth
and you tell me that it's nothing a cup of tea can't fix,
and i realize this may be the most i have ever thought about tea.
( Photo Credit: chloen )
Tiny Write
"The only thing more painful than not being able to speak,
is not being able to say what you mean." -neanbean
YWP Newsletter 10. 01.18
This past weekend I found a new form of fall procrastination - pie baking. With only a few crises - lack of salt, dairy overage, crust confusion - and the resulting internet searches and grocery trips, I now have a small, asymmetrical pumpkin pie and a large, shallow tray of custard (a delicious accident). However, while getting into the fall spirit, and enjoying all the corresponding spicy, warm, and tangy smells, I somehow failed to realize that this Monday was the first of October - my first month as editor of this newsletter. A Monday Mind block, perhaps? Whatever the cause, I hope all my fellow writers, artists etc. will forgive the delay, and are enjoying their own fall festivities.
As usual, the following is an intro to the YWP Newsletter for new readers. Feel free to skip ahead if you're a regular.
Welcome to the YWP Newsletter, curated and created by a team of Community Leaders, who, along with many others, Recommend work for Publication, Create Challenges, give feedback, and do some writing of our own! This Newsletter is a highlight of our favorite work from each week, creative, insightful, entertaining...we aim for variety to reflect and engage that of the many writers, artists, photographers and musicians of YWP. We, as the editors, hope to give these creators a wider audience, provide our busy members a taste of each week's pieces, and share some of the pieces we particularly loved with you. Please become a returning reader: Check out the other Newsletters, and share the link with others who may enjoy it.
This issue features the creations of: Aidster, Amazingnutmeg12, CecyRavenclawFireheart, Dancer, Icestorm, laurenwwright, MTBcello88, Nightheart, Nora F, Rovva, and Ruber Soul.
YOUNG WRITERS PROJECT HAPPENINGS:
Anthology 9 Celebration - All are Welcome!
STARTING SOON: Playwriting Workshop with Geoffrey - Sign up!
NEXT SoundCheck - October 18
Poetry Riot - October 24th; see YWP Events 2018-19 for more information on this event, and on other reoccurring opportunities.
By Icestorm
you think you know
the color of the sun
until you sit down
to paint it.
you reach for the yellow,
yellow of sunflowers,
of a cliché crayon drawing you did,
a perfect lemon in the top right corner.
but your hand drifts then,
to sparks on the crest of a wave,
to that glimpse of melting iridescence
in a friends’ eye- white.
orange is the bottle you finally seize
to squeeze autumn leaves,
the setting sun over a lake,
onto your impatient palette.
but soon, all those colors
(plus a few more)
and spilled on the canvas
(plus your fingers).
you think you know
the color of the sun
until you realize
you don’t know colors at all.
who else can validate
that your ocean is truly blue,
that your sun is the gold
you’ve always been sure of?
after all,
everything is perception
and if you think too much about anything
it doesn’t exist at all.
so you sit down again
and this time
dip in your brush
and paint the sun
as a prism.
( Photo Credit: Rubber Soul )
you think you know
the color of the sun
until you sit down
to paint it.
you reach for the yellow,
yellow of sunflowers,
of a cliché crayon drawing you did,
a perfect lemon in the top right corner.
but your hand drifts then,
to sparks on the crest of a wave,
to that glimpse of melting iridescence
in a friends’ eye- white.
orange is the bottle you finally seize
to squeeze autumn leaves,
the setting sun over a lake,
onto your impatient palette.
but soon, all those colors
(plus a few more)
and spilled on the canvas
(plus your fingers).
you think you know
the color of the sun
until you realize
you don’t know colors at all.
who else can validate
that your ocean is truly blue,
that your sun is the gold
you’ve always been sure of?
after all,
everything is perception
and if you think too much about anything
it doesn’t exist at all.
so you sit down again
and this time
dip in your brush
and paint the sun
as a prism.
( Photo Credit: Rubber Soul )
Nightheart
Dear (Absent) Dad,
Guess what?
You missed it.
Time goes by so fast,
(you blink)
and then it's gone.
You missed
the birthdays
and the graduations
and the colleges
and the parent-teacher confrences
and the signatures
and the weddings
and the kids.
You missed it.
Where are you now?
Are you married?
Do you have kids?
Where you there for them through it all?
I hope you were.
They don't deserve what I got.
We miss a lot of things in life.
the (beat) of a hummingbird's wing,
whispered words,
a day of work,
glances in the dark.
how the sun
(reflects,
reflects,
reflects)
off of the waves
setting them on fire
even though they are wet.
But (only) strangers miss
each other's lives.
(I guess we're strangers now.)
because you missed mine.
Hate,
Your (Non-Existent) Daughter
( Photo Credit: Dancer )
By MTBcello88
Da red an oranj leefs,
dey fal onto da me!
i cetsh dem wit mah paws!
dey cowld an yummy, yeet!
maple pumpkin apple kaik,
turkey gravey pankaik lake,
cozy fire blanketz yeet!
Bannanaz?
Nop.
Pinaplz?
Nop.
apple cider doughnut kaik,
turducken cheeze an gravy lake,
cozy fire blanketz yeet!
Da red an oranj leefs,
dey fal onto da me!
i cetsh dem wit mah paws!
dey cowld an yummy, yeet!
( Art Credit: Aidster )
Da red an oranj leefs,
dey fal onto da me!
i cetsh dem wit mah paws!
dey cowld an yummy, yeet!
maple pumpkin apple kaik,
turkey gravey pankaik lake,
cozy fire blanketz yeet!
Bannanaz?
Nop.
Pinaplz?
Nop.
apple cider doughnut kaik,
turducken cheeze an gravy lake,
cozy fire blanketz yeet!
Da red an oranj leefs,
dey fal onto da me!
i cetsh dem wit mah paws!
dey cowld an yummy, yeet!
( Art Credit: Aidster )
Sketches
As I was selecting work to highlight from this week's work, I noticed a multitude of responses to the Portrait Challenge. Each post was vividly unique, and it would be impossible for me to choose one to feature here. Here, instead, are some of the standout lines. Hope you enjoy!
( Photo Credit: lila woodward )
"Spots on your face, but what's a moon,
without stars? - Rovva
"The perfect moment is when I understand. If I don’t, I’ll quietly go up in flames." - CecyRavenclawFireheart
"The freckles are all over her face and look like a dot to dot game." - Nora F
"The sun peaks over the trees, a sliver of lights peers through the window, enhancing a strand of caramel blonde" - laurenwwright
"......big brown eyes "...some black nail polish desperately clinging to the very tips of my fingernails." - Rubber Soul
that follow you, judging you
but still respecting you." - Amazingnutmeg12
YWP NEWSLETTER - 9.24.18
Welcome! While selecting work for this week's newsletter, a theme began to establish itself. While I could point to chillier air, reddening leaves or the way my lips feel dry all as signs of fall, the surest omen of its onset is the writing on YWP. When I find the site covered in autumnal poetry and pictures, I know I should put on my sweater tomorrow morning without needing to check the thermometer. Anyways, happy fall! I hope you enjoy these pieces as much as I do.
If you already know what the newsletter is, feel free to skip the next paragraph.
Hello! This newsletter highlights writing, audio and images and any happenings in the YWP Community. We are a small band of YWP Community Leaders who also help create Challenges and select Daily Reads, Recommended and work for Publication. As the editors of the newsletter, our role is to bring you authors extra audience and shine and to bring you readers some special pieces of work. Please pass along this newsletter or the links to the stories to bring the authors even more viewers. Enjoy!
This week we feature the work of Drift, sarahaiyunghall, adalet, Anna P., Embermist, Love to write, and Rubber Soul.
READ THE NEW EDITION OF THE VOICE HERE!
Did you miss any of the previous newsletters? Click here.
Hello Autumn
Drift
I won't write about
sunsets painted on tree canopies
or how the horizon is aglow with flames,
I won't write about the spiced apple cider
and the cinnamon of my childhood.
Autumn is not those sensations,
not those memories,
not to me at least.
Autumn is the start of a school year,
eagerly awaiting my friends
and the joy they brought me daily.
It was the community
and the unity
that made it my favorite time.
It was morning walks
with my nose turning red
and the sky still dark,
but everything still bright and fun
with laughter and conversation.
It was leaving school late after rehearsals,
throats raw
and knees red.
It was squishing into the same booth
at the same restaurant
and debating about what appetizers to get.
It was not having enough money in my bank account,
but I didn't care
because spending time with friends was priceless.
Autumn was figure skating,
tugging at nylon laces
so hard
that they sliced open my palms,
and tinted my laces red.
It was purple and black knees
and long nights with heating pads.
It was staying up late
on the phone
trying to figure out calculus
and crying
(just a little bit).
Autumn is a season of change.
My parents visited me
after my first four weeks at college.
It was an adjustment,
and a lonely one at that.
I didn't realize how much it hurt
and how much I truly missed them
until I heard my mother's voice
and I took off running
until I was back in her arms.
Autumn is sobbing into her shoulder
holding her close.
Autumn is turning to look at my dad,
smiling despite his teary eyes
as I say hi
and pull him close too.
It's the bags of food they brought,
and the snacks,
and the stickers I bought in China
two years ago
but never used.
It's going to a restaurant
and talking as if nothing ever changed.
It's struggling to find parking
and then going to sing in a choral concert.
It's walking around campus
spitting out fun facts I learned and memorized
without realizing.
It's showing off the gorgeous garden
and old house.
It's sitting at a high table that's too small
and drinking water together.
It's buying sweatpants I never thought I wanted
until I remembered it was getting colder.
It's walking back to my dorm,
giving my mother her jacket
(that she forgot to grab for the second time)
and hugging her tightly again.
It's pulling my dad close
and then slipping cash into my hand.
It's saying goodbye
and saying I love you.
It's watching them walk down the hall,
and wondering if they're crying
just like I am.
It's sitting at the laptop,
opening it up
to write
about their first visit
and seeing that it's the fall equinox.
Hello Autumn.
I missed you.
(photo credit: sarahaiyunghall)
sunflower
adalet
fall is the season of decay
today i cut my flowers
because at the first sign of death
i must preserve all other signs of life
i built a corpse out of their leaves
but
discovered that i couldn't bear
to leave their fallen petals behind
so i walked home
with a trail of their yellow light
falling out of my pockets
(photo credit: Anna P.)
adalet
fall is the season of decay
today i cut my flowers
because at the first sign of death
i must preserve all other signs of life
i built a corpse out of their leaves
but
discovered that i couldn't bear
to leave their fallen petals behind
so i walked home
with a trail of their yellow light
falling out of my pockets
(photo credit: Anna P.)
Welcome
Embermist
Welcome to the fanfare of fall.
To the fire-sprung foliage that flutters onto ping-pong tables
And frustrated fighting over paddles.
Welcome to forgetting.
Welcome to wistful warmth.
Welcome to wood cabins and weaving branches,
Water reflecting here and now
A whispering world wills us away,
Away from wanderlust.
Welcome to scintillating sky,
To six AM stars, sunset streaks, spider-silk cosmos
searching for summer constellations
seeking solace from insomnia.
Welcome to pealing laughter
Loud laze of campfire (we love campfire!)
And after-dark tetherball
A leaning lullaby
liberating from life and its labors.
Welcome to melodramatic
Morse code and magic
Mastering the art of amusement
Me, drooping eyelids while memories are being made
Welcome to hungry happiness
To hand games and hideaway
Hugs (when they found me, long after the game finished)
Welcome to restful retreat
Remembering I'm still allowed to be young
So I can recount the remains to my grandchildren
without regrets
Welcome to the fanfare of fall.
To a fateful farewell
To never forgetting
the feeling of fantasy;
Frolicking across the field
Giddy and stupid with ecstasy
...
Welcome to camp.
(photo credit: Love to write)
Embermist
Welcome to the fanfare of fall.
To the fire-sprung foliage that flutters onto ping-pong tables
And frustrated fighting over paddles.
Welcome to forgetting.
Welcome to wistful warmth.
Welcome to wood cabins and weaving branches,
Water reflecting here and now
A whispering world wills us away,
Away from wanderlust.
Welcome to scintillating sky,
To six AM stars, sunset streaks, spider-silk cosmos
searching for summer constellations
seeking solace from insomnia.
Welcome to pealing laughter
Loud laze of campfire (we love campfire!)
And after-dark tetherball
A leaning lullaby
liberating from life and its labors.
Welcome to melodramatic
Morse code and magic
Mastering the art of amusement
Me, drooping eyelids while memories are being made
Welcome to hungry happiness
To hand games and hideaway
Hugs (when they found me, long after the game finished)
Welcome to restful retreat
Remembering I'm still allowed to be young
So I can recount the remains to my grandchildren
without regrets
Welcome to the fanfare of fall.
To a fateful farewell
To never forgetting
the feeling of fantasy;
Frolicking across the field
Giddy and stupid with ecstasy
...
Welcome to camp.
(photo credit: Love to write)
Tiny Writes
Not every story has a happy ending written into it for you. So get up and write your own damn ending, nobody is going to do it for you. But before you write the ending, you have to write the rest of your story, and hopefully, you write some friends in to help you along the way.
--Rubber Soul
Not every story has a happy ending written into it for you. So get up and write your own damn ending, nobody is going to do it for you. But before you write the ending, you have to write the rest of your story, and hopefully, you write some friends in to help you along the way.
--Rubber Soul