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.




 


 
Mar 04
poem 1 comment challenge: ER
HailsNaps's picture

July 5

When I open my eyes I'm moving. 
I feel pain,
sharp in my arm,
dull in my ankle,
pulsating in my head. 
I close my eyes 
but she won't let me sleep. 

The movement stops. 
I wonder how long it's been. 
It feels like forever and an instant
simultaneously. 

Doors open 
and light 
and sound 
and people 
rush in. 
Strong arms lift 
me out. 

Moving again 
down the hallway. 
It's white,
bright. 
I watch myself
like a movie. 
What happened to her? Where is she going? 

They cut my clothes off. 
Vomit,
dark, like chocolate. 
Blood
somebody says. 

I'm trapped, 
strapped into a stiff collar. 
Don't move,
she says. 
Don't move 
and don't sleep. 


My eyelids droop. 

And again 
rolling down the white fluorescent hall, 
Mar 02
e.slicer's picture

Everything

We shouldn't take anything for granted for,

Cherish every smile,

Every kiss,

every memory,

every smell,

every touch,

every emotion,

every sad day,

every bad day,

every good day,,

We need to cherish everything in every day because we aren't granted tomorrow, we are given it.

 
Feb 27
amireland's picture

After Goodbye

My grandma kneels among the daffodils
Every Spring.
She scolds them
In her clear
Accent unchanged by Fifty One Years
Lived across the pond
Where the daffodils are unruly as
Her American grandchildren
Who watch the idiot box
Even when it is not raining.

My grandma marches
For peace in the Dairy Day parade
Every Summer.
She wonders when our troops
Will all come home
And watches her second-eldest
Grandson leave for college
Only a few nations away from the
Same war she’s protested
Since he was small enough
To sit on her knee.

My grandma watches the birds migrate
Every Autumn.
Her nearest daughter and
The three grandkids she knows best
Haul firewood into the woodshed
From across the road
Where the delivery man dumps it
So the creaky farmhouse, held up
By cobwebs and hope,
Will be warm this year;
If the pipes freeze it’ll
Feb 26

In the Presence of Silence

there is something beautiful in silence
the way your shoulders slope under the weight of it
how your eyes scan the surroundings
how your lips press together and curl

watching you in wait is
watching a warrior preparing themselves for battle
i look and i see fire burning,
fingers curling in anticipation

you lick your chapped lips
and smile.
in the heat of the moment,
you formulate your thoughts,
collect yourself
and speak
Feb 26
Icarus Blackmore's picture

Freedom lost

A woman writes to someone who was close to her about how exactly to set up a dystopian world like the one she is currently living in.
Feb 26
poem 4 comments challenge: Art

The Other Side of the Perspective

Art is a delicate thing
It can show your feelings through its many mediums and textures
All of its colours and shadows
I don't know what kind of art I'd be
All I know is that I'm on the other side of it
Watching my life just sort of... happen
Watching the colours blend into each other
Getting mixed around and blurred
Watching each brush stroke come to life
Each piece of glitter shimmering through those shadows that have been created
Or maybe all it is are shadows
Just many pencil storkes sprawled along the paper
Getting smudged everytime a finger somehow finds its way there
Maybe its full of blacks and browns
Grays and whites
Or maybe yellows and purples and pinks
Or maybe...
There is nothing
And my life is a blank canvas waiting to be drawn on or painted
Collaged or to be made into perspective
All I really know is that I'm on the other side
Watching my life get created

 
Feb 25
sammyisliterate's picture

What kind of art are you? Tag yourself.

We may flatter ourselves that we are any one of many intriguing, individual styles of art: landscape, splatter-paint, tessellation, pointilism, and fundamentally self-portraiture. But none of us are freshly created, independent works, and to think we are is the highest vanity we, a superlatively vain species, can indulge. None of us would exist without other people, and we have all been influenced by thousands of people. We derive from our culture, piecing together pieces of other people and peoples to form ourselves, something "new."
We are all collages.
 
Feb 24
fiction 1 comment challenge: Door
Jean's picture

The Door


One night I was left alone. I went into the basement to get my tablet. I opened a door to this room I’d never known about. There was a mid-evil door with ancient writing on it. I didn’t know what it said so I opened it. Three demons of the world attacked me. I finally kicked them down to the bottomless pits of this world. The next night I went into that room but the door was not there! There was a scroll on the wall that said, “Every five years this door appears”. I went back to bed.
 
Feb 23
wondering about rain's picture

i love you

I love you.
The way that you smile at everything,
the way your eyes light up
every time you talk about what 
you care about,
the way you always seek the 
magic around you and the
good in people.
I love you.
They way your nose has
this little bump,
and how one eye might 
be a little squintier than the other.
The way your tan turns a little
grey in the winter like your
matching the seasons.
I love you.
How you have a little more hair in
a few more places besides just 
on the top of your head,
how your thin frame can be
thought of as too skinny and not
perfect.
perfect because its how you
are meant to be. 
I love you.
Your creativity and art is beautiful,
you show a piece of yourself in
every word,
every line,
leaving a trail of breadcrumbs
to your heart.
I never knew how hard it is to
say those words to yourself.
Feb 23
HazelK's picture

Stages Of Life

(a series of windspark poems)

I dreamed
I was a robin’s egg
Nestled in a bed of thistle
Rocking against the fragile prison
Impatiently

I dreamed
I was a parrot
Perched atop a sailor’s leathery shoulder
Spreading my wings to catch the salty breeze
Proudly

I dreamed
I was a chicken
Settled in a bed of abrasive straw
Tucking my clipped wings against my sides
Listlessly
 

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