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.

YWP staff, volunteers and Community Leaders from this site help select work.  If you'd like to help with this process, contact Susan Reid.


Oct 25
Mr. What a drag's picture

Where I’m From

(Inspired by “Where I’m from” by George Ella Lyon)

I am from the red planet
From the flying dust and the tibu tree.
I am from the all-round brick and straw house
The smell of mighty Mwanza.

I am from the Bukingwa, Kwambu, Mapela.
I’m from Christmas and dark brown eyes
From Jean-Marie and Athumani.
I’m from the clean all and Mass Sunday
and from win or lose it all.

I’m from “education is the key to all knowledge”
And “live long and you will see it all”
And “Kula laha ungali muzima”.
I’m from Catholic Easter.
I’m from Muyovozi and B2 with 68.
Ugali and oil rice.

From summer beach
River competition in an overheated weather
High above the rocky mountains
Above the Nyarugusu river flow
While terrified of jumping.
Oct 25

Dance of Creation

In my mind
I hold out my hand to yours
Eyes inviting, curious, longing
You hesitate
But take it

We walk to the center of the floor
Your hand on my waist, mine on your shoulder
For it must be you that leads
Our other hands are joined
For only together can we accomplish this

The music starts
And we dance
You guide me through the steps
Eyes locked on mine
Filled with your story
Your hopes and dreams
Your deepest desires
And I latch on

We waltz
And tango
And salsa
And twirl
And dip
And spin
And leap
Your story flowing to me
With every step

I know you intricately now
Our mouths move at the same time
Both telling your story
Our minds are melding
Our brains binding
Our souls shining together
As one

I open my eyes, smile, and start to write
Because, my dear character,
Oct 24


My parents wonder at my chronic disorganization,
  for which I can offer only one explanation:         
 surrounded by mess, is where I work best                
 in the eye of the storm, I best perform.
My creative flow, is more like a tornado
                but I'm the master, of my natural disaster.     
    To others my room is quite amiss
         yet I know where everything is.
It represents my thoughts,   
     cluttered & random
but not really lost.
I feel most      
at peace

Oct 23
byamt's picture


          I stare at the painting wondering why the artist chose these colors: the pale blue peeking out from behind the brilliant yellow, the dull red on top of the dark purple,  and the neon green in the top right corner. I wondered why these colors were chosen for the painting. Why not use hot pink, bright orange, and turquoise blue? The artist could have used squares with sharp corners, ninety degree angles, and solid lines but instead they used splotches of color with no identifiable shape. There is such flow between all of the colors. The swirl of the red mixing into the purple and the purple mixing into the blue. The yellow, however, stands out on top of the blue an interesting contrast to the swirling, mixing, calm of the other colors. There is a plethora of spattering white dots across the canvas. As if someone startled the artist and they turned around quickly; the paint from the brush splattering across the painting.
Oct 23

When Your Footsteps Fall Heavy

When your footsteps fall heavy
Like shadows,
Echoing behind you
Attached to your feet.
You can’t breathe,
You can’t speak despite
Oh, despite how your tongue
And teeth and mouth urge you to.
When your breathe comes fast and rapid
Closing the space it exits behind it,
And the chill of words settle over your bones. 
Your hair standing on edge with unpleasantries,  
Head screaming and banging. 
Thoughts sinking towards your soul,
Questions float to the top of your brain
Like oil on water. 
When your eyes hurt, 
Your fists are sore, 
Your skin cramps, 
Your imagination begins to become vivid
With a fantasy that will never ensue.
A dream of anger, lust, sadness, 
Emotions. You believe,
No person should have to comfront
That is when you know, your heart has been broken.
Oct 23
clearyj's picture

A Crime had Been Committed

Yellow means warmth, the feeling of a bath on a cold day, and the color of of the highlighter used on my not-so-great final paper.
These were my final thoughts after were had taken our test, and before I had gotten robbed.
I was watching a boy in yellow through the window. He, of course, did not know he was being watched, and continued to splash in a muddy puddle. I looked back at our teacher. He had dozed off long ago, and the students who had finished their tests knew this. Some were throwing paper airplanes and notes, but I was much too tired to be clowning-off like usual. My head fell almost immediately--I couldn't resist the chance to take a small nap. It was like my head was a paper clip, and the desk was a magnet. The loud noises were distant, almost like they were playing on a nearby TV.
Oct 23
laurenwwright's picture

People Watching

She sits alone on a faded wooden bench afar from the green. Watching the people all around her in the same place but, all in a different moment, mood, and world. She watches a little girl cling to her mother, full of love, yet to be touched by the world. Her mother wraps her in security to keep the sparkle in her vivid eyes. She watches a middle aged man teasing his dog, making him jump, and run to find a toy that was never thrown. The man laughs while the dog climbs up to him, tongue hanging long from his mouth. In the distance a young couple walks silently with tension between them. A squirrel watches from the base of a tree, sprinting up to the branches when two little kids run by laughing, trying to catch one another. She watches teenage boys wrestle in the grass, while girls hover above giggling, telling them to stop but knowing it won’t result in much.
Oct 23
Sydney's picture

There's Mischief in Her Eyes

Hmm, I think this girl is up to mischief. She has that look in her eyes. She is at a party but is sitting by herself in the corner of all the commotion. She hears nothing when people speak to her. All their words bounce off the bubble around her head. A woman comes up to her, but she does not see her. The woman talks to the girl, but she does not hear. "Are you listening to me?" the woman says demandingly. The girl now sees the woman but still does not hear her. The girl holds a sticker on one finger that came off of an apple she ate earlier. "When you turn around, I could stick this sticker on your backside!" she thinks as she sees the woman.
Oct 22
rinehara's picture

The Ever Changing Fall

The Ever Changing Fall

The ever changing fall,
This is usually the time go out and play baseball.
But I am growing up, and although I still feel small,
I am changing, just like the fall.

The vibrant colors, the sharp, bitter cold,
Everything from the trees to the grass becoming gold.
The leaves streaming down,
The day seems deprived of sound.

The whistling wind, the rustling grass,
The change from summer to Fall is happening so fast.
The subtle change, in the atmosphere
Winter is drawing near.

Soon the family will crowd around the fire,
the feeling of warmth will only be a desire
The geese make their migration call,
When the time comes for the changing fall.
Oct 22
Foleya's picture

Seasons of Hair

Early September:
Hair as bright as the sun
Down to her waist
Late September:
Hair was golden as carmel
Shorter than it was, yet no scissors have gone near it
Early October:
Hair as light as milk chocolate
Almost at her shoulders without a blade ever touching it
Late October:
Hair as bold as pumpkin spice
Touching her shoulders, the scissors still in the cabinet, untouched
Early November:
Hair as brown as dark mocha
Barely at the end of her ears, her earring being the only metal near it
Late November:
Hair as murky as dark chocolate
Now grazing the top of her ears, scissors haven’t been touched
Early December:
Hair as black as ink
Barely covering her head, scissors collecting dust
Late December:
Her head is as bare as a tree without leaves
The scissors thrown away