YWP Content Published in Newspapers



Young Writers Project is most grateful to its eight newspaper partners who publish your work on a regular basis. Weekly: Burlington Free Press and The Valley News. Monthly: St. Albans Messenger, Brattleboro Reformer, Rutland Herald (and Reader), Times Argus (and Extra), Bradford Journal Opinion and Charlotte News.

The papers have a combined circulation of nearly 75,000 and the papers are read by well over 150,000 people.

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The Winter trail

Every year when winter comes we gather all our gear
Our boots, and skiis, hats, and gloves will keeps us 
out there long. 
I could stay forever with the snow covered evergreens
and skiing down steep hills
the dares and promises we make to do them 
really gives me the chills
when we head out to the trails in the woods
we ski out to an area, the hills so big and long, 
I couldn't wait to do them, and see who really falls.
The trees are and hills are beautiful here, with the sun
seeping through them like the rainbow in the storm.
 We almost stay here forever, 
with our frozen toes and fingers
but we know to do it tommorrow 
and cross our fingers it snows

 
Nov 13
joseph.deffner's picture

A Recipe from the Heart


The small white sign in the distance grew bigger and bigger as I walked. When I got closer I could make out the small black letters that I knew so well. It read “Blueberry Hill.” That’s one of the things I loved about living here - all the old houses had names, including Grandma’s. When Mom and I moved here I was sad because our house didn’t have a name. Most kids’ favorite day of the year is Christmas, but not me. Every August fifteenth I go to Grandma’s house and we pick blueberries together. It used to be her, me and Grandpa, but he passed away a few year ago. When I got to the door to her house I knocked loudly. After a few seconds she opened the door. Her pepper hair was frazzled and I could see clumps of flour in her bangs. She smiled up at me and said, “Are you ready?”

“Yes!” I said, eager to begin.
Nov 13
Nora.F's picture

Picking Berries


We hike we laugh and we talk. We reach the top of the hill where the berries grow as far as the eye can see. We pick for hours and compare the pounds and pounds of juicy ripe berries. We climb down the bank and back to the vehicle. Pile in to the old beat up truck that only gets used when we come up this awfully maintained road. The truck squeals to a start and we begin to roll down the road back to the house. Each bump we hit the truck rears and groans as if it is in pain.

We pull in the drive to the dog barking and chasing chickens through the gardens. We all pile out and go into the house rinse the berries and begin to make my mom's famous wild berry jam. We wash our hands and get the pots out.

“Put the berries in the pot and then run downstairs and grab the jars and the big bag of sugar” says mom.
Nov 12

Nature Trail


The birds sing loudly as I walk down the old beaten path, leaves and twigs, being crushed and snapped under the sole of my boot. The squirrels scurrying around the ground looking for nuts to survive the winter. The sound of the cicadas who have emerged from the ground and are seeing above the soil for the first time in seventeen years. The trees are overlooking the whole forest, towering over everything, only the birds can reach heights taller than them, the guardians of the forests. The ant colonies scurrying to find food for their queen and young, marching in almost perfect lines across the trail, ignoring anything that might walk across them. As I walk down the trail, I stop at a stream, the water rushing down hill, if you lean closer to the water's edge you can see the water striders glide effortlessly atop the water. If you look below the striders you can see schools of tiny minnows seemingly lost as they dart randomly in the clear water.
Nov 12
zazu's picture

Piano melody

Long delicate fingers dart across the black and white keys.
I like to watch,
The way they move seemingly effortlesly to carry out a melody.
There's an old man on the corner of our street.
I can always hear him playing the piano from an upstairs window,
So I sit on the sidewalk and listen.
Some of the neighbors don't like it,
They say his hands should be still for once,
But he doesn't stop.
He didn't stop.
Now when I go by his house it's empty.
I was the only one who stopped to listen,
who heard the long delicate fingers dart across the black and white keys.
I like to watch
To listen
When I hear the piano, I look towards his window.
But it's someone else.

 
Nov 12

Black Hole

I'm leaving soon,
meet me 
where the sun is ours 
and the dark only ends 
when you swallow it. 

I don't think the wind
knows what it's like to want someone
so desperately that the sky
falls for him too. 

Yes,
I'm leaving. 

No amount of rain
or flood
or dying can stop me. 

My going is up,
my leaving is gone, 
my living is starting. 



 
Nov 10

Snow

She pauses, and puts a hand on her chin thoughtfully, 
Wishing that the fire crackling in the woodstove 
Would swollow up her thoughts 
And create a picture for her to watch 
Because it would be less painful
If it wasn't inside her head. 
The colors swirl 
And let her eyes inside the thought
But never let them out
As they fall like snow 
And melt like snow 
And dissapear like snow
But it is not snow
It is the fallen ash of her cloud
Of her thought
As bright as winter 
As cold as summer
For her hands will not rest 
Until all of the thoughts are thrown
D
  O
    W
       N
Onto the ground.
Maybe it's snow after all.  
Nov 09

Find Me

If I ran would you catch me?
Hidden within my mind are all the memories we share.
Crossed and tangled into a ball of feelings.
How did you untangle yours?
I need a cheat sheet, I need you.

When I try to imagine us, all I see is
That day you popped your head around the corner,
With that golden boy smile.
I know I would be ok… I’ll be ok.
Your deep brown hair and bright green eyes,
Complimented by your slightly scrawny body just make me laugh every time.

Never understanding why you stuck around.
You could have had so many more friends…
Yet you choose to be mine.
I am the epiphany of horridness.
My tattered clothing and dirty blond hair,
Matched with sunken brown eyes and weak smile.
Drives a lot of people away… but not you.

How did you find beauty through all that?
What X-ray did you use to get past the overgrown thorn wall I grew.
Nov 09
tobin's picture

falling

                  
It's saturday night. The wind is making a moaning sound and the rain is stedly drumming on the roof. A flash lights up the room,a couple of seconds later there is a ear splitting clap of thunder followed by a minute of two of quiet. Then it repeats itself, lightning, thunder, lightning, thunder.

Every time the room is lit up I can take a couple of steps. I Know that is not fast enough, but I can't bring myself to continue forward in the dark. What if there is another one lurking on the floor, waiting for a unsuspecting human to step there. I my way to the door
Nov 08

evening thoughts after not writing in awhile

getting better
what even is that?
what is better?
how are you supposed to know when you're better?
is it a feeling?
an unconscious drift in the mind? the body?
honestly, i have no freaking idea how to know when you get better 
but i'm still getting better
every day, even the bad ones, i am getting closer to "better"

performance poetry is hard to write but easy to think of
at least for me
i've always liked performing, whether it's by myself or with others
but doing anything by yourself is scarier than doing it with others
i write when i'm feeling things and i'm almost always feeling thing except when i'm not
but couldn't any piece of writing be performance poetry?
i mean if it's being performed it's a performance
right?
i could perform this if i wanted to but that would be lame, i think
yeah that would be so lame

is this even poetry? can anything be poetry?

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