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.




 


 
Nov 17
poem 6 comments challenge: General

The Little Things

In our society we’re consumed by the number of likes we receive,
It’s assumed if you don’t have pages, and pages of friends you’re lonely,
But only, this media we call social is anything but,
Driving us further and further away from communication,
Take a break from your phone,
Appreciate the life around you,
Don’t let it slip away,
Don’t let social media control you,
Look at the beautiful trees that surround you,
Listen to the spectacular sounds that are around you,
Appreciate the little things in life,
The most simple of them all,
Maybe someone said “Hi,”
Maybe someone said “Bye,”
Maybe someone held the door,
Maybe someone did more,
Don’t ignore these little things in life,
Because in our society,
We will not be consumed by the number of likes we receive.
Nov 17
Dylan Kotlowitz's picture

You


I can feel and hear the scratching of your leaking pen, scraping in its tormented recordings on the dry paper, building and building in intensity, crawling across the blank sheet writhing through my mind, twisting into convoluted shapes of mutated thought, scraping itself together in a fantastic wave of overwhelming black ink rushing over the fore of my mind, splashing into my eyes, pulling them shut, and then washing away the sandcastles of my thoughts.
Nov 16

The Lamppost

By: Amica Lansigan
 
As I strolled along an abandoned lane
I came upon a lamppost
That cast a shadow in the rain
An imitation, like a ghost

The fog uplifted, the moon revealed
The stars emerged a molten-gold
The lamppost stood, unconcealed
A remnant of the old

The lamppost crackled, but did not light 
An emblem of life that used to be
A deserted town, not a soul in sight
The remains of humanity



 
Nov 16
Sydney's picture

A Blackberry Pie

Nov 16

Repetitive

Repetitive
That's what my life is
Repetative
When someone picks up the book,
I begin a journey that ends the same way every time
No matter how hard I try to influence it
I'm a puppet on strings
Following the control of my master,
The writer
I was created and put through tests
I was changed and edited until I was fit for the public.
And then I was used,
Over and over
Forced to live the same life again and again,
With no way out
Repetitive
That's what my life is
Repetative
After all,
I'm only a figment of your imagination
Nov 15
jessie.p's picture

Blackberry Pie


At the top of the hill, are the blackberry bushes. Momma and I use to go up there and pick them until there were none left in sight. We'd go there every other day of the very short season, and get scratches all over our legs. We'd freeze the blackberries so we could make pies all year long. When the time came to actually make pies, we both had the recipe memorized. Now, I couldn't remember it if I tried. Making pies with her were the best days of my life. When I smell a blackberry pie, I am transported. Back to when we'd make pie crust from scratch, and make it perfectly every time. To when she'd let me make the classic knife holes on the top, and always told me it looked good. To putting on the aprons my Grandma made for us, even though we never made a mess. 

This is my recipe for happiness. 
Nov 15
jessie.p's picture

Blackberry Pie


At the top of the hill, are the blackberry bushes. Momma and I use to go up there and pick them until there were none left in sight. We'd go there every other day of the very short season, and get scratches all over our legs. We'd freeze the blackberries so we could make pies all year long. When the time came to actually make pies, we both had the recipe memorized. Now, I couldn't remember it if I tried. Making pies with her were the best days of my life. When I smell a blackberry pie, I am transported. Back to when we'd make pie crust from scratch, and make it perfectly every time. To when she'd let me make the classic knife holes on the top, and always told me it looked good. To putting on the aprons my Grandma made for us, even though we never made a mess. 

This is my recipe for happiness. 
Nov 15

Favorite Scents

The air held the aroma of fall scents. The scent of caramel filled one part of the room, while another had the scent of apple cinnamon. Men and women rushed around in the kitchen, sometimes yelling for something. Sounds of pans crashing together, sizzling fryers, boiling pots, and most of all, the chatter of the patrons. Regulars, critics, and newcomers were all welcome to the warm and inviting reds and yellows of the restaurant. You could hear some customers compliment the food, saying that it tasted like their mother had made it. Others were downright picky about every little on their plate. No matter, the warm and sweet scents around the brought a calm and relaxing setting even with all the craziness. The smell of fall is truly wonderful.
 

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.

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