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These pieces are selected for publication by YWP Staff, mentors and this site's Community Leaders. If you wish to participate in the selection, contact Susan Reid.

 

 
May 30
poem, essay 1 comment challenge: General
seriously.sharp's picture

Time Travel

    Some people have dreamt up ways to travel into the past or future. In movies and books we see people using cars, phone booths, and Time-Turners, to name a few. Others are actively looking for a way. They appeal to science and magic, hoping that they will find ways to transport our bodies to events that took place long ago, so that we can witness (and maybe even change) the course of history.

    Some people think that time-travel is impossible. But I know a way—a way that is quick and accessible, ready for me almost anytime and anywhere. By accident I have discovered that the simple power of a song can catapult me into the past. I’ll be scrolling through lists of songs in the search of an old favorite, and suddenly, without warning, I am flung into the projects, the classes, the places and the feelings of the past as if I’d never left that time, that place, that moment…
May 27

Maine

May 25

Second Home

May 21

Water

A clink and splash 
From a full glass of water
Gets my senses started.
I watch the
Big glass with green stripes
Around it 
Avidly
Wondering and 
Knowing
Why a simple glass can get me tingling.
I know why.
Water. 
At the very thought of this word
I'm pulled 
First to the ocean
Crashing
Melodic waves
Lap the shore
Reminding me of warm 
Sand
And cool
Water. Floating among the salty, open sea
I feel more mysefl than ever. 
Zip... and I'm in 
The above ground pool 
With flecks of grass in it
Splashing
Swimming like
A seal, smooth
Like cream. 
Again, a change 
And I have been transported 
To the lake
The cold tingling
The slide off the dock
The shouts of ectasy.
The pool again
Then, the ocean
Back to the lake
And then with a whoosh...... 
I'm staring at the 
May 08

Master of the Beach

She wore her hair short - short like mine, and like most of the women close to me in my family. My Mom, Mor Mor, and Nana all wear this style, too. We like to think of ourselves as trendsetters. When I cut my hair, I could see the pride glistening in Nana’s eyes. The non-traditional tradition carries on. Her hair is a mix of gray and black, “salt and pepper,” as she calls it. I can see why. Unlike hers, mine shines yellow like the rays on a summer day.
May 08

Have you ever heard toads singing?

Have You Ever Heard Toads Singing?
May 06

Do You Ever Feel Like A Flower In The Sun?

Do you ever feel like a flower in the sun?
You’re sitting in water, your leaves soaked,
your face is to the sky, and your petals stretch.
You feel it on your face like a warm kiss
and let it hit you like rain falling from a cloud.
Does it ever occur to you that there’s dust
sitting on your desk back at home?
Did you ever realize that the paint is chipped?
Does it bother you that life is a hole
that keeps going further and further
and darker and darker
until you hit the bottom?
Did you ever notice that the bottom,
that unbreakable, cold, and dark ground,
is not the end of everything?
While you may be tempted to look down
and scratch at the bottom like a cat
scratching at the front door for a welcoming,
your life is up there waiting for you
and there’s always a rope around you,
leading you back up,
keeping you steady,
and all you have to do is give it a tug,
Apr 27

Wandering

'Wander' They said.
'Wander the world.'
'Test the limits.'
'Explore.'
So I do.
So I wander.
And I explore.
In the day:
The grass is strokes from a painter's paintbrush.
The sun is a ball of laughter.
The trees are proof of resilience.
The river is the sky liquified.
The clouds are balls of fluffy cotton.
At night:
The grass is tinged with what looks almost like frost.
The moon is peace.
The trees are guardians against nightmares.
The river is molten silver.
The clouds are but a whisper, a lullaby just for me.
Wandering has showed me the colors of the world.
Wandering has proved worth while.
But next time I wander,
I want a friend, to share the wonder with.
Apr 21
poem 2 comments challenge: Senses
Emilia Perry's picture

A Walk in a Wooded World


In Vermont,
the middle of spring means everything is brown.

The mud that churns and splashes under tires on the dirt roads.
The bark of the newly-budding trees,
Wet with the rain of promised flowers to come.
The grass that remains pale and scratchy,
Newly free of its heavy winter coating.

A walk in the woods brings new life
To this time so devoid of color.
Though, it does not come in the form of visible hues.

It comes from the chirps and songs of birds,
Who have returned and brought with them such pleasant noise,
Breaking the silence of the winter months,
As barren as the cold landscape itself.

It comes from the sticky sweet sap
Oozing from the maple trees,
Collected in metal buckets,
To later coat your tongue and breakfast,
Thick and rich like honey.

It comes from the smell,
That is so strongly the smell of spring,
Apr 21

The Sky of Clouds

Apr 16

NYC

Apr 15
poem 2 comments challenge: General

Being human

Maybe we all don't see the same colors
Maybe we all don't have the same fears
Maybe we all don't have the same political veiws
Maybe we all don't have the same color of skin
Maybe we all don't have the same practiced culture
Maybe we all don't have the same beliefs
Maybe we all don't have the same train of thought
Maybe we all don't eat the same food
Maybe we all don't enjoy the same subjects in school
Maybe we all don't like the same TV shows
Maybe we all don't live in the same place
Maybe we all don't wish for riches and fame
But maybe thats just being human.

 
Apr 11

Behind the Flowers

Apr 11

Vacation In Florida

Apr 06
poem 1 comment challenge: Awakening
Zia Smith's picture

The seed and the sun


The seed lies in the soil
It is silent
Covered in a blanket of darkness
It dreams of wriggling and squeezing into the sunlight
Craving the warmth of the mother sun
However, it waits
Hoping that spring is on the way

Spring
It is here
With open arms and a watering can
Spring slowly begins to tend to its gardens
Carefully and patiently
It brings the wind to wake the small seed
The seed is ready

Days
Weeks
The seed’s fingers climb
Pushing the dirt to the side
Gulping down each drop of precious water
Living for the touch of the sun
The beautiful, radiant sun
Her loving embrace, waiting

The seed
It knows it is close
There is ringing,
Of vibrant colors cascading over the earth
The seed’s fingers can feel it now
It is finally free

Eventually,
The fingertips morph into petals
Mar 29
poem 1 comment challenge: Frost
laurenwwright's picture

Flower Garden

A field mixed with sage and poppy.
Four legs hide between the trees 
but their faded white spots. 
Scoping out the landscape, 
sniffing through the weeds.
They tiptoe through the tall 
green grass, extend their pointed head
toward the ground and tear the color
from the weeds. 

Lifts their face towards the sky
whenever something shuffles by,
and stands like a statue till' sure there's 
nothing left in sight. 

For now when you look past the trees,
you might catch of glimpse of red poppies
poking through it's uneaten leaves. 
Or feel the dirty mint smell of sage. 
But from this distance you can not see
the tiny lines that hold a leaf a different way,
or the contrast of color from the sunshine of day. 
For the details far too small from this far,
which the deer will not see before eating them all. 
Mar 22

Home

Because I am graduating this year it finally hit me that I'd have to leave and I had a crisis about it, so I wrote a poem about it.

I used to be embarrassed to say that I am from Winooski. 
I would lie, hide, do whatever I could to disguise it.
And point out every flaw I could to try to distance myself if I was ever found out. 
Now,
As we are honing in on these last few months,
Where soon I will actually have to leave,
I don't want to. 
It has recently dawned upon me how much this school and community has had an impact on who I am and who I will become once my tassel goes right to left and I exit these doors once and for all.
So I suppose I'm writing this as a thank you. 
Thank you to the student body, teachers, administration, everybody that has seen me cry and heard me say hundreds of times that all I want to do is fail and drop out, but then taking me over and over, and helping me succeed. 
Mar 18

prove me wrong


i pray that you prove me wrong. 

i hate being wrong. 

but what you have,

behind your metallic smile,

is stronger than my impulses to 

always be proven correct. 

please prove me wrong. 

i do trust you, believe me, i do,

but it’s his soul that beat you black and blue.... darling,

he gave you that bruise upon your arm, 

and you let him bandage the marks 

with a piece of scotch tape so 

please my love,  know that it is not you, but it is him that i do not trust. And if i’m standing by you, dressed in that dove colored fabric as you approach him with tears on your plush cheeks, i will smile, as you proved me wrong. I pray that you prove me wrong. 
Mar 18

Beauty

Mar 11
poem 0 comments challenge: Invasive
riverrun's picture

A Plea From an Ash Tree

As a little ash tree, I’m young and very sweet.
I just wish emerald ash borers wouldn’t eat me.
I dream I will live a happy long life,
Don’t let them crawl in and destroy me like a wiggly knife.
They crawl under and up in ash bark, squiggling through the dark,
and to get out they dig a hole like a garden with a mole.
Adults are a pretty emerald green, but they will eat my flesh all clean.
I don’t believe using pesticides will most successfully work, but also don’t want the beetles to continually lurk.
They tend to eat me and my fellow trees, but I’d be nice to them if they were nice to me.
Since that’s not the case, please help keep them in a contained place.
Leave your firewood in it’s space so that my bark doesn’t become lace.
People should protect the trees and fight as one so that in the end the ash trees will overcome.