Daily Read

The graying man behind my dad
downs the contents of his martini glass
and says something to the waiter
I can’t hear.
Dr. Paris is talking to me.
“I hear you’re going to have
another visitor from Japan.
When’s he arriving?”
“Tuesday.” Her meal arrives.
She cuts into a tomato slice.
“How long is he staying in Vermont?”
“Seven weeks.” “That’s a long time.”
“Yeah.” My root beer bottle is empty.
I pick up my water glass instead.
My dad’s talking about tiramisu
and African swallows
on Victorian postcards.
I let him sneak a bite of bitter cheesecake
and stare through the cataract of the sky.
Dr. Paris tries again.
“Caila and I saw MMU’s musical—“
“—Pippin—“
“a few weeks ago. Yes.”
“What day did you go?”
“Friday night.”
“Oh. I went
Saturday.”
“I guess we just missed each other.”
“How’d you like the play?”
“Kind of an odd plot, don’t you think?
I’d expected it to be
historical fiction or something.
I mean, I liked it.
But there was the stage manager and
people popping out at random times
and just general
confusion.”
“Yeah, I guess
there is.”
“What?”

AN: This is just a story I started one day, and I'm not really sure if I should continue it or not. Feedback is very much appreciated!
_________________________________________________________________________

The wind blew throughout the forest, grasping anything that it could with its ice cold fingers. The crescent moon high in the night sky cast an eerie light over the ground and caused long, dark shadows to stretch across the forest floor.

A girl in her late teens was crouched up in the branches of the a large oak tree, waiting for something. Her eyes were trained on the gap between two huge stones that looked as if the gods had placed them there as a gateway to the forest. A stick cracked soundly behind her, causing her to jump and snap her head around towards the origin of the noise. The darkness was all around her and felt as if it was pressing in on her eyes. She couldn't see a thing, adn eventually she turned back around adn looked towards the gateway once again.

A chill suddenly wracked her body, making her shiver in apprehesion. The icy fingers of the wind pulled at her clothes and ran down her spine. She quickly shook off the nervous feeling and continued watching, never blinking.

He was coming.

Out of nowhere, a black shadow seemed to emerge from the rest of the darkness. The putrid smell of blood and death rose up to meet her nostrils, adn she immediately covered her nose, trying not to gag. The shadow glided on. The cloak the shadow was garbed in fluttered behind him. The girl rolled her eyes. He always was one for the dramatics. A glistening, silver sword could be seen beneath the cloak, and a dark smear covered a part of it. Judging by the way the moonlight glimmered off of it, the girl was almost positive that is was the crimson life that had just been taken from the man's latest victim. She curled her lip in digust at the realization.

There’s something about slamming
into a wall repeatedly that
hurts. My shoulders are bruised
and the inside of my head is
mangled like someone’s been
suffocating me too long. I’m
slamming into this wall to
get out, or maybe I’m trying to
stay in. Maybe I’ve done
it a thousand times before and can’t
know how to do
anything else; I’ll do it infinitely,
this slamming, forever
plus some. Sometimes I can’t
tell.

There’s something about the
word “infinity” that’s daunting. Infinity
is as high as we go;
children seem to be the only
to do the unthinkable
in that
intense moment of
childlike passion where the
one child says to another,
“Infinity and
one!”

If infinity is a cycle, I’ve got
to break it. If infinity is
the sagging clothesline in the
backyard, I’ve got to
straighten it. Or if infinity is
something else, it needs
to be nothing because

I’m tired and I’m beat and I’m
not sure why. My vision’s been
slanted lately, but
maybe that’s not just
me.

I’m not generally a follower,
but in all honesty,
I’ve been losing time
lately.

I need it back.

I’ve been spending more time
as a guest lately,
and less time as myself.

And I need it back…

So this isn’t saying
goodbye, really, because

It’s not like that.
Not exactly.

I'm taking a break for a while.

(This is probably not exactly surprising since I seem to be following a pattern. I doubt I'm gone for good, however. Autumn holds great promise and YWP has been--and continues to be--amazing.)

See you all on the flip side,
MM

Holly used to be the girl who read on the bus
with wind-borne conversations raging
around her stiff-still body and
whipping her hair around her face. Now
she stares straight at the bus driver's
bald spot in the mirror and lets the
wind play with the wires linking her
ears and her ipod that's never turned on.
And she listens, hears and studies the
exchanges tossed from seat to seat
like an anthropologist watching the
habits of primates or an alien trying to
figure out how to possibly fit in.

"Are you drinking again?"
(My first reaction was to say
'Does it look like I have enough to time to drink anymore?' But I figured that would start a whole other conversation that I'm not willing to finish this early in the morning)
"No mom, why?"
"You've been falling asleep early again and if you remember last year...well, you did the same thing back then. I’m asking because I’m worried, you’ve been doing so well this year."
"I'm tired because I'm busy and I'm busy because I'm sober"
"Okay, that's all I wanted to know"
"Can I go now?"
"Yeah sure, good luck at your track meet today"
"Thanks"
And with that, I shut the front door and walked to school
Where I started another busy day
All over again.

His eyes were wide
and his shirt was long
and he flicked his hair
off his face.
He's funny, they said
and perverted
and he had the look of an
ex punk rocker
still wearing black
eyeliner.
His eyes were wide
and his hair was long
and shaggy
and he looked at me
and I stared at him
as I walked down the hall.
He looked at me
and I saw
my thoughts mirrored
on his
face.

actually, the pessimist's guide to YWP

1: If you're new, please don't post bad poetry. We don't like it. We won't read it.

2: Don't just say you LIKE a piece. say why. We know it's good. Tell us how to make it better.

3: We really don't care what your dog ate last night. At least write a story about it, don't just POST it.

4: Don't talk about anything other than the topic, unless you're in a forum. It makes us regs pissed off.

5: If you have a specific goal for the poem, post it at the top, then we can suggest how to make it fit that.

6: We're really nice people. Please don't tell us we don't know what we're talking about.

7: GG is god. Respect him and at least TRY his suggestions. Generally, they're pretty amazing.

8: Don't have stupid competitions to make more posts. They're just that. Stupid.

9: Lists are always interesting. They introduce us to who you are.

10: We'd love for us all to be ONE BIG family. allow it. only... OUTSIDE YWP. meet in person, (in a public place) call each other, email, IM, whatever, we dont care.. JUST DON'T CLOG OUR FORUMS!

rant over. Please comply. thank you. much love.
Lili

I.
September was vaguely the colour of summer, and his hair was always shining in the sun, and things were easy and different. It almost seemed perfect. It could be one of those things that old women tell their grand-children it was so perfect, and I was not one to deny myself that. We walked in parks and laughed at the streams who watched us. We knew they would keep our secrets and couldn't see any reason not to skinny dip into their cold pools of water. They were really very refreshing, those streams. for a while, we picked up rocks to take home and remember each day, but that was pointless, and we both knew it, so we put them back and waited for them to turn into sand. It was blonde sand like his hair. It was just as dirty too.

II.
I once told him that the sky reminded my of time, because it was grey and went on forever and no one could ever change that. I guess it struck him as funny because he told me the sky could fit into my eyes and I had to disagree. Time could never be trapped like a fly stuck to a fly-paper strip hung form the ceiling of a horse barn. it wasn't that ignorant. It knew it had to keep going. If I could talk to time I would ask him to tell me what's happening. I'm sure he'd have an interesting story to tell. Maybe about Rommel. Maybe about the prime minister. I've heard things about that man, but only time will tell. But time is generally quiet. He's really very good at slipping by without being noticed.

III.

I.
He used to tell me about the way that rotting worms smell when they reach the top of the soil, crawling out across the pavement into puddles to squirm and wiggle with discontent at how they'd never make it across the road and how they would soon die there without friends or loved ones around to hold a funeral. It rained on Tuesday, and as I walked to the taxi, I put my feet in the empty spaces between the worms, trying hard not to step on them and put them out of misery. The school kids, in their rain-boots and rain-hats and rain-coats stomp into the puddles and trickling streams of water across the sidewalk. They step on the worms. I apologize for them. I'm sorry worms. You look so funny when you squiggle and squirm into a tiny wormy ball of pink flesh spewing guts full of dirt and rain water. The worms salute me as I walk by. They like that I don't step on them.

II.
He lived in the basement of one of those houses they have in bad gang movies, one where the trim on the garage matches the trim of the house, but only around the doorway, because the windows don't have painted trim at all. The house was sort a a forest green, like the pine trees that we used to dream about in Montana while fishing in the little stream behind our wigwam. It was a nice wigwam, and we watched sunsets from its doorway, stuck halfway between the Indians and Oregon or the new neon signs in Vegas, where we swore we'd go someday, even if we had to hitch hike. The sky was as pink as the trim on that house. Sometimes we'd go into the basement where he lived and watch films. Not good films. The kind of films that you get bored with half-way through and make you wish you had something better to do or to talk about. I once asked him why we watched them. He said because I couldn't keep him entertained. I knew this was a lie, but I let him carry on anyway. He enjoyed being right. I let him think so.

III.

Lady sighs out breaths
of surrender,
as the rain taps
across her skin,
washing away
the perfume,
curling her
hair,
dissolving
the make
up.

Mascara
runs down her face
in tears like
liquid ashes;
lipstick droops
off the rim of her lips
like wilting
rose petals.

Liquid soaks through
her clothes until
they become
transparent, until
the world can see
her scars,
shining
pearly white, and

the rain drips
into her eyes,
ears,
mouth

soul.

She's shivering
even though
the air is warm,
because she
knows that
as she lets the rain
wash her away,

it's slowly destroying
her puddles
of fake,
and

she finally
feels
beautiful.

My Burlington is the Burlington where
Wimpy forests can be found along the lake's backbone
And where private beaches are open to everyone.
My Burlington is the Burlington where
A friend's house is only a quick jog down a long street
And where the Shopping Plaza is seen as stores in the same area,
Not another rude development .
My Burlington is the Burlington where
I walk past building after building and that I know
My grandparents are friends with the residents inside.
My Burlington is the Burlington where
The swing sets are used by the big kids too
And the senior citizens really do bake cookies for little children playing in Ethan Allen park.
My Burlington is the Burlington where
I can ride a plastic green bus to
Downtown where I can experience more than my suburban lifestyle
And still go home to it at the end of the day.
My Burlington is the Burlington where
I want to spend my life.

The best part of the state house is the ceilings.

Sure, they've got great carpets. The paintings are elaborate. Fancy curtains hang everywhere. There's a swiveling rack of stamps on a desk in the house chambers. And there's, y'know, the government.

But the ceilings are awesome.

By the front of the house chambers there sit a line of plushy red chairs usually occupied by members of the Senate. They are now occupied by me. And, y'know, the other interns. I have a great view of all the representatives swiveling their swivel chairs and looking bored. One man in a bow tie has been talking about a forestry bill for half an hour now, his monotonous voice accented by whispering legislators. The intern two seats to my left is texting with impressive speed. The girl next to me is chewing gum that smells like leaves. I'm looking at the ceiling.

The entire expanse up there is painted white and elaborately carved. In the center there's an enormous flower. It must be eight or ten feet across--a giant upside-down white-painted ceiling daisy. Its petals curve threateningly downwards, as if straining to devour the pages seated innocently beneath.

The ceiling around it is in the timeless style of a slightly squashed waffle, decorated with a bulbous design like a fancy ribbon along the edges. At every intersection there's a bud--ready to sprout into a new massive rooflower. All around the edges are what appear to be lightbulbs encased in porcelain petticoats.

She found my
Poetry journal
With the softly torn pages
That holds what
Even I
Don't
Want to know.

I'm walking down
the hallway
there he is!

What should I do?
What should I say?
Should I do,
anything?
Should I say,
anything?

I don't do a thing
except panic
I dart up the empty stairs,
and rush past the skinny, yellow lockers
hoping he doesn't notice me,
hoping I may still have a chance
to hide somewhere
wishing I wasn't in that place,
at that moment,
wondering why I was

Now I'm safe,
in the library's quarters
as he walks by the window
I feel like a fool
I didn't do anything to acknowledge him
o, well.
guess have to wait
until next time we meet
the bell just rang for class

Day after
Day,
Night after
Night,
She sits
In the kitchen
And scrubs
The old pans,
Rubbing and
Rubbing,
Covering her skin
In fluffy bubbles
Until the
Skin is raw.

Hour by hour,
pot by pot.

“The Native Americans were deprived of their rights when...” Let’s see. Maybe this has something to do with those teepees. I mean, who would live in some tent for there entire life?
No, I’m pretty sure that’s not it.
“The Native Americans were deprived of their rights when they...” Well, that’s better, one more word. Let’s think. What did the white people do? White people. Ha. We’re not even really white. So what did the tan people do? No, no, what did the peach people do?
Come on, Cora, back on topic. Alright...
“The Native Americans...”

Cora Williams jumped as the phone called out some rock song everybody’s heard and no one can name. Her phone danced on the desktop beside her. The Caller ID reads Emma, and a girl with chestnut brown waves and blue eyes appears above it, a picture, her face contorted in a smug grin.
Cora snaps the phone open, smiles.
“Hey Ems.”
“Hey babe.”
Emma, the only girl who could ever pull off calling everyone, including every single guy in the entire ninth grade, “babe”. An incredible feat, of course.

I’m not religious. I suppose officially I’d be some form of Christian—my family celebrates Christmas and Easter, and we go to the local church with the big green spire on those days. Other than the services on holidays, though, I haven’t set foot inside any church for years. The last time I was at this one was for Harvest Market last fall.

Yet sitting here in the third pew down, looking up at the alter and the flowers somebody put in a skinny swooping vase, I do get a sense of something important. This isn’t a place to yell, to swear, to listen to my iPod or carve my name into the bible stand in front of me. I feel like whispering. The air’s a little weighted here, saturated with the palpable belief of how many dozens of people who’ve sat in this seat before me. I might not believe, but they do.

Religion isn’t a big part of my life. It’s hardly a part of my life at all. When I was younger I coined the term “functional atheist”—having no religion unless it will get me presents or candy, stated my crude definition. It’s still pretty much true for me too. I usually thought about religion only to wonder why people fought so many wars over it. The mentality of let’s go kill our neighbors because our god is truer than theirs! never made any sense to me. Differing religions don’t seem like a good enough reason to end somebody’s life. Suddenly, a different way of thinking is a crime—a crime deserving the death sentence? It’s even called ‘beliefs,’ as if recognizing that religion is only in the mind.

Both camps cite similarities in wording of speeches of others.

There's nothing in the rules that says a leader has to be original or creative, neither of these traits are required in order to be a good leader. This is why I don't get all of this fighting that has been going on between the Obama and Clinton camps over rhetoric.

The Media Equation: News Isn’t Wasted on the Young - Can newscasts retain the college crowd beyond the elections? [NYTimes -- National]
For more newsblog entries.

I really like this article because it discusses the many effects that our generation has had on the presidential election. There are a few things I would like to touch on:

In response to Obama's jokes, a supporter said, “It wasn’t very presidential, but it was really effective.” Obama is so popular with the younger crowd because of the way he sells himself. (Isn't that what campaigns are all about? Candidates run around trying to attract people.) Compared to the other candidates, Obama makes it look easy by the way he connects and communicates with college students. Our generation isn't looking for a candidate who talks down to us or ignores us like children. Obama also seems so genuine -- just compare Hillary's mock MTV video and Obama's "Yes We Can" video on YouTube.

I woke up
half past eleven.

Didn't bother to brush the chaos
from my hair

He stood backstage,
the snowy feathers attached
to his shoulders and
blending smoothly into his
white cotton
button down shirt, and

his shoulder length hair
fell around his
smooth face
in slow waves like
dirt and bark and
sweet Earth.

His large eyes stared
straight ahead,
unblinking, and

the shadows flew
across his somber face, and

for a second I forgot
that the wings were only
part of his costume.

Important things to know:

1. Although small children do not seem capable of reciting the alphabet past E, they are very good at recalling every one of the swear words you used upon realization of the fact.

2. The thicker the book, the harder the blow.

3. No matter how interesting it may be, internal parasites are not a good topic to bring up at the dinner table.

4. Speling iz impourtint.

5. Spaghetti is not worms.

6. Nor is it pronounced "Pasgetti," "gaspetti", or "spinach."

7. It's always best to agree with the person pointing a hot glue gun at you. This also applies to a loaded rubber band, feathers, and chalk.

8. Hungry polar bears make good pets.

9. Gluing a quarter to the floor is an entertaining way to spend half an hour.

10. As long as you don't try to pick it up yourself.

11. If there's a possibility your uncle's ex-girlfriend will see you in a restaurant and start hurtling deviled eggs and stabbing pears with knitting needles while yelling about her cats, then chances are, it will happen.

12. Stay away from your uncle's ex-girlfriend.

13. And airborne deviled eggs.

14. And knitting needles. And, if possible, cats.

15. Never teach a four-year-old how to drive.

16. This counts double for tractors.

17. And airplanes.

18. According to school milk cartons, you are what you eat. Therefore it is a good idea to stay away from anything blue and fuzzy in the fridge.

19. Never trust anyone who speaks in acronyms.

20. Glue is sticky. This is extremely important to remember and surprisingly easy to forget.

"defiant"

this is my voice yes my voice you cant have it
this are my thoughts yes my thought no you cant change them
I'll let you in I'll throw you out
wipe your feet
maybe you'll like what you see maybe you don't
this are my eyes yes my eyes
they see what you cant
these eyes focus
these eyes drop out
they twitch
they blink
they stare
and they see through the black

This morning
Mom was reading the paper,
and over her shoulder
I saw
TURKS PROTEST LIFTING OF SCARF BAN.
Wow. Great wording.
OK, so first,
officials at universities in Turkey
didn't want women
to wear head scarves.
So they banned them.
Now they want to lift the ban on the scarves,
but some people are protesting lifting the ban on the scarves.
I don't know about you,

Inspired by this week's picture taken by Chelsea Wait.

Those eyes,
Brown and
Sparkling in the
Sun,
Reflecting me
Like a still
Ocean
of
Trust,
Pure trust.
Ingrid by Chelsea WaitThat smile,
wrinkling your cheeks,
Softening your
Face,
Long abused
Makes my heart
Burst with love.

The world
Is closing in around
You,
On top of you,
Something nobody
Deserves,
Nobody,
Especially you.

Pain should not
Be put upon
Children
Who carry
Heavy scars
Already.

You don't deserve
Pain.

I want to hold
The world up
For you.
I want you
To sleep
In peace
For at least
One night,
Under a full
Moon
And shining stars.

I will do
Anything
To give you
A chance
In this cruel
World.

I will do
Anything
For you,
For those eyes
And
That smile.

Someone

Someone to admire,
Someone who walks with my respect,
Someone who may not be here now,
Someone, always trying to show people how.

Someone who believes,
In who he is and what he’s striving for.
Someone who speaks about what he sees,
But someone who’s on another shore.

Someone who’s footsteps,
Someday I will try to follow,

The Silence is filling up
you can see it,
the uncomfortableness,
until
someone responds
to the statement
which no one
voiced.
Silence greets it, and
will take it away before long.
For Silence
hides away all that is
unwanted.
and hushes it with cold fingers
to soothe it on it's way.
The Silence has spoken
to reconfigure the
bridge of truths
unspoken,

Don't frown at me,
Don't sweep me aside,
Tired of my clinging,
Of my clutching hands.

Don't toss me to the ocean
Of hungering fish,
Don't fling me back
To be devoured.

Don't laugh at me,
Following in your footsteps,
Echoing your moves,
Mirroring your dance.

You somehow got it right,
You got the formula
For success.

Don't send me back
For being afraid
To free fall.

I don't want to look away
Turn around
Hide my face
But that is the only way
I can cope
In this place

You all look so normal
Like you belong,
Like you know how to respond
I just feel awkward
Alone, out of place
So lifeless dull, just in your way

Sometimes you look up
And wonder why
That strange girl is standing there
"What's wrong? Is she shy?"
I glare back at you
And you turn away
Normalcy reigns once more
And you hurry away

....meh....I don't like this poem but I'm going to post it anyways...

Fever

By Rebecca
Hartford Memorial Middle School, Grade 8

My mind slipping,
my fingers so frail,
scrapping,
crawling.

Breath cold on my chest,