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Feb 21
admin's picture

The Voice - Feb.March 2017

Each month, with community help, YWP assembles the very best writing, images, audio and video for display in The Voice, our monthly digital magazine. This magazine celebrates the very best that this community produces. This month casts light on the amazing energy and entertaining content from Vermont Writes Day and the events surrounding it.
Apr 22

Let's Grow Old Together

I was just sixteen 
when you said 
"Let's grow old together."

I stopped what I was doing,
whatever I was doing,
and felt a smile
spread across my face,
reaching all the way to my eyes. 

"Okay," I replied,
with every part of me 
believing what I was saying. 
Apr 18
Fiona Ella's picture

Apocalypses Arrive Quietly

Apocalypses don't come smashing down from the heavens, 
destryoing civilization in one easy wave of fire
and sending everybody into a frantic scramble to survive twisted political ideals 
and stay alive. 
They don't steamroll over people's lives, 
destroying political and social concepts all at once. 
They don't dry the Earth up all in one giant cloud of dusty red smoke, 
leaving us on a Martian desert land full of prehistoric beasts. 
Apocalypses don't scream their intentions as they slam down onto our heads, 
and they don't wipe out live as we knew it, 
not noticeably, anyway.

No, I think that in real life apocalypses arrive so subtly
that people don't always realize they're there. 
One simple, reasonable step after another until it's too late. 
We go on and continue our regular lives, 

Apr 10
ChristianBolding's picture

American Return

Long beyond the swollen,
commanding flow of the
Mississippi, in the far, unknown west,
lies the quaint
and hopelessly secluded town of
Driftwood Springs, Wyoming.
Not much has changed since my departure,
which may as well have been
a lifetime ago.
Margot waits at
the Wild Cactus Diner for me;
sitting behind the wheel of Dad’s
once-scarlet ’72 Chevy.
Waitress apron still on,
her shift must have just ended.
She grins, cigarette between lips,
as I kiss her cheek and whisper,
“Hello, little sis.”
Apr 02

A week-old dream, lodged in the part of my brain I like the least

I watched from outside myself
perhaps in the mirror,
perhaps I was the mirror,
sitting formless as my body
wearing jeans and staring
at my stomach from the side,
searching out imperfections and wondering
if it really is small enough or
if I really was so wrong to continue skipping lunch or
if I was actually putting on weight,
if all the stress from school and the
donuts sometimes and the
bagels for breakfast and the
ice cream for desert sometimes and the
stress from wondering and the
stress from watching and the
stress from being stressed and the
and the and the
and the.
Mar 26

The Universe's Waltz

hearing your name makes me panic
I feel heat crawl up my throat
clawed tendrils burning every spot of flesh it digs into
my stomach turns sideways
and the acid burns

I close my eyes
pathetic dams hoping to stop a river
and I see you

hiding in the corner of your room
a cloak of shadows
the purple lamp casts light wildly
the salt lamp cycling through the colors of the rainbow
and thick clouds of rose incense

the record player quietly droning some record I never really cared for
spinning around its center point
like some unknown system revolving around a brilliant silver star

it was a waltz
not really but in three four time regardless.

if I pull your spare sweater around me tighter it feels like a second home
these were my weekends
Mar 24
in poem 0 Comments challenge: Photo9-Hoodie

No Crown on My Head

I am a overgrown king in a prince’s castle.
My back pushes heavily against
Rafters made of branches,
That I once could only reach If I stood on my tiptoes.
The knights have left their posts,
Dragons no longer attack my woodland fortress.
The vivid magic that once filled my brain
Has drained out through the soles of my feet,
And I now lay in the residue.
There is no longer a crown on my head, but a veil,
I am a widower to a past filled with light.
I know I must leave soon,
The car stands still in the driveway,
My belongings and mother waiting for me.
I was leaving my childhood life
And going to an adult one.
I linger a moment more,
I took a deep breath and ingrain the smell of pine into my mind.
Taking off my hood,
I crawled out and into the uncertain sunlight.

Mar 22

We Don't Care

European tragedies call for changing profile pictures to the colors of a flag.
We rally together in times of need and support each other with pixels.
We color our faces to match the flag of those who have fallen.
There are vigils.  Candles.  Prayers muttered on knees and clenched hands.
We tell our loved ones how much we love them.
How thankful we are for them.

Middle eastern tragedies call for silence.
We blame Islam.
We blame black presidents.  
We blame everything and offer no sympathy.
There are no vigils.  No candles.  No prayers muttered on knees and clenched hands.
We say nothing.

European tragedies call for blaming rising muslim populations.
Facebook comments rally together, chanting over and over again
"This is why we cannot mix cultures"
"Islam is a faith of war"

Mar 22
in poem 0 Comments challenge: Photo9-Hoodie


it took a while to get out there
a seemingly endless up hill bike ride
cluttered with the high pitch hum of sidewalk people
and the screaming of car engines
all growing fainter as his feet worked
in tandem with the bikes warn tires
and pushed him towards the woods 
where he hiked
first on trail then, ignoring his
parents advice,  veering off
pulling himself up cliffs and 
bounding over streams
for an hour or so, if he
didn't stop for a break,
until he reached his spot among the trees
in the shade given off by their leaves
that dampen any remaining sound that could
slide in from the contaminating world outside

there, he would lean himself against a sturdy
but aging birch
pull a pen and a notebook from deep in his bag
and fill the pages with thoughts
Mar 20

Last Dumb Love Poem

A head full of butterscotch dreams keeps me from the lull of sleep.
I’d rather not dream than see these mirages of a love that will never be,
with love itself being the reason that they daze and confuse me.

Oh how love burns.
It burns deeper than the fires of the most cavernous hell.
Deeper than the thought of nothing past the stars,
no heartbeats,
no bloodstreams,
no one to tell you how much they need you with them.

Imagine, a rot begins in the aorta
and it moves throughout the whole body,
pulsing through veins
until there’s nothing left but a hollow shell.
Shallow skin sinks.
Eyes roll from their sockets.
The tongue becomes bluer than even the ripest of berries.
Imagine an energy that burns with a toxic fog,
paralyzing everything in a matter of seconds
Mar 18
Della's picture

Conversations on the Chairlift

I've been waiting to say it all day
Waiting until we were all alone on the ski lift
Waiting until your brother was well out of earshot
Two chairs behind us
Even though no one could hear us anyway
We still lower our voices
"Tell me everything.  Every single detail."
We look down at the people on the slope
Shout random things at them and dissolve into laughter
Banging our heads against the metal bars
You tell me
I tell you
Because you are
We both grin
"True confessions"
You say
And we spill all the secrets
Large and small
That we have accumulated since
We did this last
Over analyze every action of the boys we like
See who can spit the farthest
Argue in jest about nothing
Mar 18
H20.hollym's picture

A Remade World In Wynwood, Miami

Note: All of these are pictures of graffiti or street art, on the side of buildings in Wynwood, Miami.
Mar 17
in non-fiction 0 Comments challenge: Letter
MaeveCurtin's picture

Dear Robyn

Mar 17
H Swett's picture


Beneath the blanket of snow
covering the land – as far
as one can see – lie the forgotten
leaves of last fall. Crumpled
and brown, they wither
where most are afraid to look.
But it is possible to look
beneath the undisturbed layers of snow
to the remains that wither.
They are the memories, far
below mounds of insignificant worries, waiting. The crumpled,
patient, life-giving but forgotten
memories that our lives are built upon. Forgotten
to us except in those unexpected moments when we look
upon them once more – rising, crumpled
from the hard packed snow
to remind us that they are not far
but need recognition in order never to wither.
Without continual visiting from their maker, they will wither
and die – slowly, quietly – forgotten
Mar 09
in poem 0 Comments challenge: Never

Never Could I Leave, But Always Will I Go

I could never leave this place,
Where I see the blades of grass, tipped with green, shaking the dew from their stalks with the help of the wind.
But perhaps I’ve left already,
With my heart at college and my mind on exams, tests, and college applications.

I could never leave the sunrise sneaking over the trees and shining in my eyes when I try to do math in the morning at six a.m.
But I’m already sipping coffee with nineteen year olds, while deciding our majors.

I want to stay and be sixteen, seventeen, and eighteen forever,
Never leaving the safe, sheltered comfort of home.
But September of 2018 will come around,
And I might be in the Shenandoah valley, or in Pennsylvania, staring at De Sales.