YWP Content Published in Newspapers



Young Writers Project is grateful to these newspaper partners who publish your work on a regular basis. Weekly: Burlington Free Press and Valley News. Monthly: Addison Independent, Bradford Journal-Opinion, Brattleboro Reformer, Charlotte News, Essex Reporter, Milton Independent, Rutland Herald (and Reader), St. Albans Messenger, Times Argus (and Extra), Williston Observer. These papers are read by more than 150,000 people.

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Jul 21
serenamae2020's picture

The First Cup of Coffee

the first rays of sunlight
seep through your shades;
you shy away from the hue
hoping for just a few more minutes of peace

but it's too much; 
you begin to stretch, 
restless as you try to shake 
sleep from your eyelashes

you peek at the clock 
and sigh when you see
that it's 5:42 am 

trudging to the kitchen, 
you fumble through the cabinets 
desperately trying to find the one clean mug
so you can indulge 
in a much-needed cup of coffee 

the first tendrils of steam hit your nose
and you breathe deeply,
relaxing as the comforting aroma
surrounds you with warmth

you plop yourself down
at the round kitchen table
and take your first sip of coffee. 
the sunlight again coats your face, 
but this time you welcome it with open arms, 
smiling in the soft glow of dawn. 
Jul 11

We were kids once

When we were kids, we went out trick-or-treating.
Our parents did our makeup so we looked cute
and scary at the same time.

When we were kids, we drew graffiti in our notebooks.
Our teachers read us books about sneezing elephants
and cats with very tall hats.

When we were kids, we threw water balloons at fences.
Our friends would draw on our arms with fat markers
and draw round smiley faces.

When we were kids, we watched the world spin.
Our excitement to grow up was becoming evident
and we put on our little boots.

Now that we're older, we watch rated R movies.
Our parents hand candy out the front door
and we try to scare the kids.

Now that we're older, we draw the people we miss.
Our teachers hand us books about the big future
and awful historical tragedies.

Now that we're older, we throw anger at politicians.
Jul 11
Monster_T_02's picture

My Soul Is Returning

I know I may not be the best,
Nor is my mind the greatest,
But I do know my heart still beats,
With the  purest of intent.

My mind may still weep,
My soul may still cry,
But I will not allow myself,
To lay down,
And die.

My hope is slowly returning,
My garden I will replant,
Self love I am still learning,
And strengthening like an ant.

My path is very shaky,
And monsters still jump out,
But seven years is all I need,
to clean my skeltons out.

Seven year in cells,
I will be a new being,
And my body will be cleansed,
From all their wrongdoings.

Your body is renewed,
After seven years,
Every cell is replaced;
The thought brings me to tears.

One day they will not touch me,
My body will not be their's,
I will be a new person,
Without all these trivial fears.

My mind my still be shifts,
Jul 01

11:51


Another story to tell-
because these days I 
can't think of the future. 

Do you wonder about the stars-
every night they shine
for billions of souls to see. 

Guess what's on my mind- 
have you got an answer?
I'd tell you, it's
just- you might be afraid. See, 

kings and queens rule over
land- worry rules over 
my thoughts.

(nothing can be simple)

Only breathing, but even then the 
precious air seems to fight for space in my
quilted body. 

(restless rise and fall)

Saying things is not believing
them, yet  
under every star-filled sky is a 
victory and a child.

When we look around, 
x-rays of our eyes look like magnifying glasses. 
You're sweet to wonder about my 
zagging thoughts. Are you sure it's better to be together?
Jun 23

Shadows

This morning the sun,
beyond the birch grove, 
ripened like a summer peach. 

The river rushed to the ocean. 
My body was a core of closet dust. 

This morning dark stones on a ledge 
descended in handfuls: 
slipping into each other, 
tumbling like an uptight crowd. 

Your gaze drops like a feather
to the wilted corner of the vacant bedroom 
where a pile of ruffled notebooks 
sit slouched, untouched 
in over a year. 

You promise yourself 
not to be static,
not to get stuck,
not to be a moon for someone 
else's planet. 

The boy behind the blue cash register
at the corner store accidentally
circles you in his sleep. 

When you were younger
you revolved around a model
of Pluto, downsized
and jammed into a jar. 

Usually, bookshelves 
hold people adept to looping 
the lip
of sink drains and kissing
Jun 22

flower power

some spring-time flowers!
 
Jun 21

Lake Champlain at Sunset

The egg yolk of a sun had already dripped away

City lights peppered the peninsula, breaking up the hard outline where land meets air

The lake was a placid raspberry colored mirror of the rainbow sunset, fringed by indigo night

Fish disrupted the watery glass-like surface, creating small ripples

As the colorful horizon melted into the vast depths of sky, a large ghost-like moon rose

The lake now shimmered with a new pale light.
Jun 15

Crimes of the lonely

She once stepped too close to the sun
Now she breathes fire into the ocean
And the tempest dances
She once danced in the stars 
But her feet became cut 
And bled from her prances.
She once enhaled the rain
Letting it cool her words
But sometimes water can’t put out a fire
She once loved to much
Pretended she was free
And was burned by desire.
She once spread her wings
Leaped
And wished to fly
She once had a friend 
Who loved her
But she made her hold up her sky.
Jun 14

You are the future

Look up little girl,
See those stars?
They are your future.
Even if the earth wobbles
They will always stand still and strong above you.

Look up little girl,
Don’t look down
That is our past,
We humans have not done our best,
But your generation will change the future.

Look up little girl,
The sky holds the possibilities
The ground is only your cracked base
You have nothing to worry about
So just believe you can save us.

Look up little girl,  
Don’t look sad,
Remember those stars?
They will always be there lighting up the night sky.

 
Jun 13

The tent on the sun

The tent on the sun

We watch, we watch the ripples in our hands turn to fire. Burning the roots of our hair, sculpting the honey in my eyes. As our bodies are changing i feel the texture of the world move, i feel it shift under the brains in my feet. My hands grip hers. The borders of the tent turned to the shades of her hair, soft and thin as snow. Her and the tent become brighter and brighter, the sun inches from our fingers pulling at our atoms turning everyone thing to one, one moment. The sun looking into our eyes, braiding our hair, mending our souls. The tent on the sun, the warmth of its shell sharing with anyone; here it is time to breathe.

 

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