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 01
amberb's picture

The Short Seasons of Her Life

Your birth unlocks a new potential for the future
Alas, your smile untouched by treason
Possibilities accompany inescapable dangers
Oh how I can't wait to see your future's face. 

Your life justifies my loss of inhibition
Alas my heart is imprisoned in your hands
Held hostage by the restless perfection that you embody
Oh how I can't image my flower-filled world without you.

Your sickness, a shared disaster between us 
Alas, I wish to strip you of the cycle of screaming suffering
Holding you hostage as your, now weak, hands once held my heart tightly 
Oh how your bright light now fades and falls like Autumn leaves

Your death tempts my despondency
Alas, my world is winter without you
Nothing but a question of trifle
Oh how the sinister content of love almost always cheats mercy

Oct 31


You are one of the best things that has ever happened to me. 
You are the only one who's ever believed in me like this,
Stayed with me this long,
Whose ever loved me back. 

I've never felt this before.
This kind of connection,
This kind of love.
But I can tell you,
It's what wakes me up in the morning.
It's what keeps my heart beating.
It's what keeps my lungs sucking in oxygen.
It's what keeps my eyes blinking.
It's what keeps me coming back for more. 

When I'm with you,
Every worry and stress melts away,
Like how a raindrop rolls down a window. 
You make everything better. 

When you touch me it feels like electricity is shooting from your fingertips
And trailing its way down every inch of my body.  

When you play with my hair,
Everything freezes.
Every cold breeze and odd sound,
And I am filled with warmth
Oct 31
millern1's picture


I watched the crisp, dying leaves of the maple trees that grew outside my small cottage as they steadily drifted towards the cold, solid autumn ground. The trees of my forest always seemed to be on fire in late October, their bright hues almost hurting my eyes. The dining table that lived in the corner of my kitchen offered an exquisite view of the changing landscape through the old rustic window. A steaming cup of bitter, dark coffee was cradled by my aging hands, their skin turning dry and wrinkled as it always does this time of the year. Once winter comes my youthful face and body would be hardly recognizable, my thick copper hair replaced with a head full of wispy white threads, my glowing skin would turn grey and creased. Of course all this would be reversed once spring came again, as it always had, but I couldn't help the melancholy feeling of finality wash over my being, seeping into my skin and taking hold of my stomach.
Oct 30
Kittykatruff's picture


What happens to the
In a child's eyes
Between six years old
And sixteen?

What happens to our 
Our mindsets 
When we go from being told
To imagine our own worlds into existence,
Then enter the "real" world and
Are ridiculed for 
Dreaming too big?

I'm still shy of sixteen,
My rosy gaze tinged with whims and
Images of fantasy,
A child at heart, I think,
Yet expected to act "like an adult"
Though I'm not part of 
Adult society or conversations.

When I look into the eyes of a puppy,
An innocent creature,
so small and gentle and sweet,
I can't help but wonder why she's so content
To wag her tail and lay down beside my seat.
How does she see the world, This
bright-eyed creature?
I cannot tell, I cannot speak her tongue.
But I do know I'm happy when I see her

Oct 29
Kittykatruff's picture

Sweet Dreams

When the autumn breeze 
Blows leaves away, 
I know it's time to go.

When the sun disappears
Behind screens of rain,
I know it's time to go.

When the first snow falls
And the ground freezes o'er,
I know it's time to go.

When people pick pumpkins
And rejoice in harvests,
I know it's time to go.

When people gather firewood
And find their coats and mittens,
I know it's time to go.

When people sing carols
In early anticipation,
I know it's time to go.

When I feel the call of those before me
And yawn in mimicked response,
I know it's time to go.

So I curl up in my cozy burrow
Down under the freezing dirt and snow,
And sleep, dreaming sweetly, through the time
People sing and feast and have winter break
and oh, who knows. I'd rather hibernate!

When the sun shines again 
And melts the snow,
Oct 29
kanyj's picture

Night Skiing

Night skiing means foggy trails, laughing friends, and quiet views.

Night skiing means the slice of edges cutting into the mountainside, the warmth of steaming hot cocoa from a thermos, and the relaxing emptiness of the lodge.

​Night skiing means dark skies, bright lights, and strong winds.

Night skiing means the rush of the wind in your ears, the sting of the snow hitting your face, and the weightlessness of being airborne.

Night skiing means peaceful woods, amazing snow, and perfect nights.

Oct 26
poem 0 comments challenge: Snow
Crystal33's picture



You are standing in the cold waiting.

Feeling the sting of the snow against your rosey cheeks.

Waiting for a snowflake to drop on your black glove.

To look at it for a split second, then watch it disappear, into a drop of water, absorbed slowly.

Waiting for the next to drop, only to see the same flake of powdery snow,

but knowing it's not.

It's the same thing every year, a white, frigid, and beautiful winter.
Oct 26
Paigebrammell2022's picture

The house

She stares at the empty house. Smiling from the memories that flood her mind.

She grew up in this house. From the rusted swing set where she spent most of her afternoons on. To the Abandoned tree house her father had built for her and her brother. Years ago she had to leave all her memories and friends behind. She remembers driving away and looking out the window as what she loved most passed by.

    She unlocked the door to the large house. Nostalgic smells filling her nose. Her young daughter runs past her in her snow clothes as she did when she was her age. A feeling of happiness washes over her. Know that her children will get to grow up in the same house as she did without leaving abruptly, makes her happy and rest easy. She is ready to relive her old memories and make new ones with a family of her own.
Oct 26


There is a dog that I have.

It growls, bites me.

It is always there.

I cower, it frightens me.

But sometimes, the company comforts me,

Because when the tears are endless,

It stays with me, wails with me,

Never says goodbye to me.

It is quite mean,

But it can be tamed.

It can never be caged,

But it can be restrained.

It has a name,

But most people don’t understand it.

It hides in the shadows when they look.

There is no explanation

No reason for it to have temptation,

But it bites all the same.
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.