lm09

I.
I don’t remember when I retreated from the sun.
It was gradual, in increments, little incidents
drawing me further and faster into darkness.
I didn’t realize until the morning
I opened my mouth, words came out,
and nobody glanced toward me.

I hated this prison, this half-self-made cage.
I could see, I could smell, I could hear --
but I could not do.
I wouldn’t let myself. I’d be exposed.
People might see
what the mirror reflected so glaringly.
But what do mirrors show
but truth?
It’s our eyes that lie.

Once, when someone asked me
what animal I’d most like to be, I dropped my gaze
and said a maple tree, tall, thick-trunked,
steady branches spreading wide and up.
A tree is in the background; a tree
observes and whispers what it sees
and doesn’t care that no one looks its way.

II.
I leaned against the slick white bark
and listened for the footsteps of a no-longer-ghost.
It would be so easy, so fitting,

Self-explanatory content

By Sally Tucker
Hartford High School, Grade 10

I hate
Comparison
I dread
The deep
Judgment
Of difference
I’m irritated
How it
Winds through
Society
Sinking into
Our automatic
thoughts
I loathe
Any second
Glance
That isn’t
Quick acceptance
In my head
Even the
Angry words
I am writing
It bothers me
How you might
Be using
Any negative
Words about
This poem
Because
You're comparing
It to others
Right now
And you
Don’t think
There’s anything
Wrong with that

Marshal and Lucy

By Paul Detzer
Hartford High School, Grade 9

Mamma’s pretty strict, but she’s a great mom and I love her so much. She lets me and my brother Marshal play a lot of the time when she’s home, and when she’s at work she expects us to do the laundry but after that we can do whatever we want; but she says "Stay out of trouble, ya' hear?."
She leaves for work at the factory early in the morning, before I’m even up. Sometimes I wake early to say goodbye because sometimes she doesn’t get home until eight at night, my bed time. But normally she gets home at five, and she can fix us dinner and read us a story and clean the house a little. Marshal gets to stay up until 10, and if I try I can put my ears to the wall between my room and the living room and hear them talking. Mamma says when I’m thirteen, too, I can stay up with her and Marshal and be in their conversation. But I’m only nine, so that’s really far away.

Doors

By Josie Kerrigan
Hartford High School, Grade 10

Doors open
Doors close.
Doors creak
Doors squeak.
Doors are entryways
Doors are dead ends.
They whisper
They yell.
Doors are big
Doors are small.
They protect
They unveil.
Doors share secrets
Doors keep secrets.
Doors open
Doors close.

At the end

By Noah Detzer
Hartford High School, Grade 12

So soon it ends
in one year
everything will change.
everything.

All will leave
Some will succeed.
Some will fail.
Some will be left behind.
Some I may cross paths with
but
All will leave.

In a sense
it's a reboot.
a new beginning.
a success.
a new way of living.
the first day of the rest of your life.
so they say often
repeating it as though it is law.

Some parts are good
leaving behind
the fake,
the plastic,
the insecure,
the immature.

Yet some are far worse
leaving the best friends
the ones who really mattered
the ones you love
for a new life somewhere else.

At the end
all of the struggles,
the successes,
the pain,
the sorrow,
the sadness,
is rendered moot.

At the end
everything changes.

Full Moon

By Jamie Benson
Crossett Brook Middle School, Grade 7

A shaft of moonlight seeps through your window and rests on your pillow.

You check your clock, 12:00, you try to sleep but you can't.

You look out your window at the cool night.

The moonlight on the driveway, as puddles of shadow, endless.

Sections of sky woven seamlessly together.

It makes you wonder... . Why.

And in that moment your head rests on your pillow and your imagination soars.

Incarceration

By Katy Turner
Bellows Free Academy, St. Albans, Grade 10

It’s not that I hate my town. Or my state. I actually don’t. But I’ve been halfway across the world and back, seen places and things that I’m still trying to take in, and guess what? I’m restless. It’s true. I want a city, more than anything really. But it’s so easy to want something.

Note from GG: I've linked this seven-part story. It's interesting; check it out. Just click on the next chapter at bottom right after you open up the full story.

As a young man in a gray T-shirt and blue jeans crossed the deserted street, two bikers rushed past him, almost hitting him. He turned to glare but it was no use, they were already halfway down the road by then. The man returned his attention to his destination, a small patch of dirt about twenty feet into the block. Surrounded on three sides by derelict buildings from the late 18th century, the garden was as good as a sanctuary - hardly visible from the road and set in an area not plagued by traffic.

The Man sat at the bolted-down table in a bolted-down chair. He watched the investigator pace back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, in the dim, orange glow of the bare bulb. The investigator was a heavyset, balding man in a grey suit and a dark blue tie. His grey eyes peered out from behind heavy eyebrows and his mouth was set in a permanent frown.

“Do you know why you’re here?” the investigator asked.

The Man shook his head.

“First, I want to know who you are,” the investigator said, setting his palms on the bolted-down table. There was a heavy silence. The Man stared up at the investigator. The investigator glared down at The Man. Then the investigator grabbed The Man’s mask and yanked it off, tossing it aside.

Another, slightly smaller mask peered out at the investigator.

The surprise was evident in the investigator’s cold eyes. His lip raised in a silent snarl, the investigator grabbed the second mask and pulled it away.

Black and white and shades of gray.

That isn't all.

"-You can't just stand here! Can you even remember who you are?"

An army major's fist pounded on a gray wall in a gray room. He was not alone.

"We must have names! We have to. And that, that means, we belong!"

The major turned on the blank ballerina behind him as he sobbed, his unshaven and sagging face juxtaposed to her white and glossy perfection. He moved closer.

"Because, somewhere, somehow, we, we have a life, that's been cut away from us."

His fingers crept up her unloving cheeks, her hands slowly touched his. He closed his weary eyes and held her perfect curves gently.

"We've got to get it back," he whispered. "Each one of us."

He let go of the ballerina and took out a shovel.

"We'll dig."

--

I turned off the TV with a sigh.

Resuscitation complete, I thought with a half-smirk.

It still hurts to fully smile.

It still hurts to show emotion.

But here I am again. Emotional.

It’s odd to watch yourself bleed out into someone else, to watch yourself become something else so easily, to change like a Chimera from day to day, shape-shifting-colour-taking in so many ways it seems as though you’re not longer yourself in this body. You are no longer in this body. You don’t even know who YOU are. This body doesn’t FIT right, there’s too much there, not enough here. Your teeth are too sharp. Your hair is too frizzy. You can’t bite the palms of your hands with your nails because they flaked off because you just didn’t care enough to cut the hang nails. You’re lips are too big. Your toes look too funny. You want to shake you head and snarl at the reflection staring back at you each time you glance in a mirror. You want to break that glass, pull out that picture, destroy it. Rip it up. Forget what you look like together.

This is my first real short story, so bear with me. Comments would be appreciated, Im not sure if this is really clear.

Blurry photographs out the backseat of her mother’s car. Capturing the smell of cigarettes and wet dog, mixed with the old-man smell of artificial pine hanging from the mirror. Highway flashes by in disposable memory. One minute it appears and the next it escapes the view out of this pane of glass and is gone. The feel of the cloth against her bare arms and the long hair tickling her neck in necessary comfort. The awkwardness seen in her movements. The silence in which she moves her arms and repositions herself on the seat. Her mother sits in silence, hands gripping the wheel so tightly that blood escapes her fingers and they are left white and lifeless. Her face is grim, a stretch of pink lips on pale skin. Eyes hard and stern from worry, from too many tears already shed.

My lullaby

By Erin Trzcinski
Rutland High School, Grade 12

Cradled in your arms
My head upon your chest
I hear your heartbeat
Strong and steady.
I listen to your breathing
Slow and deep.
Listening to the rhythm of your heart
Coupled with your breaths
It never fails to lull me
Into a deep, peaceful sleep.

Don't mean a thing

By Dylan MacFarlane
Long Trail School, Grade 8

O, father, O, father
Have you found what you were looking for
spent a long time looking
but you've been knocking on a locked door

try to find the reason
try to find the key
what is the reason for being
why am I me
but there is no answer
nothing from which to cling
because we don't mean a thing
don't mean a thing

O, father, O, father
you've spent a long time studying those pages
but when our lifestyle hits the stages
should we stand by, imitators
immune to the changes
should we stand by, imitators
or should we stand up
face up
stop toasting from an empty cup
find something else from which to cling
because we don't mean a thing
don't mean a thing

O, father, O, father
there has been too much pain
too much hatred
and nothing from it to gain
but we could stop all of this
if we stole the crown from the king
and realized
that he don't mean a thing
don't mean a thing

Thoughts on old, drunken men

By Isabella Blanchard
Essex High School, Grade 9

I would be lying through my teeth if I said I've seen the ups and the downs of the world. I have been very privileged in my time here on Earth and I think that as someone as blessed as I am, I have very little perspective on those who have not been so fortunate.

I'll Show You

By Colleen Crete
Rutland High School, Grade 11

You think you know me
But you don't
Just wait and see
And I will show you what I can be.

My Childhood Memory

By Kelsey Johnson
Hartford High School, Grade 11

The night I lost my sister I felt like a part of me had disappeared into thin air. She was like the second half of me that I never knew that I had, even though she was a year older than I.
We had just moved into our new house in Wilder from Windsor and were adjusting to the new change. My parents had just then put us in our own bedrooms. Ever since we were born, we had been sharing the same bedroom. Then, it didn’t seem like a big difference. I mean, we were still right next to each other, so what was the big deal, right?
Well, I didn’t know it then, but it was a big difference.
One day, I was getting ready for school and she was lying on the couch. Mom had said that Kristen was sick and couldn’t go to school that day. I shrugged it off; I figured that it was a common cold, that anyone could get it. But when I got home, she was still lying there. I remember she looked so pale that it scared me.

Leave the Front Door Open

By Brett Morrison
Frances C. Richmond Middle School, Grade 7

When you walk down the street,
You probably don’t think about that
Shabby old man you walk by
Or maybe that young lady in the suit.
But,
You may not know what they are going through,
But even though that man seemed poor
He might just be happy.
And when that business lady seemed well of,
She might be unhappy and lonely.
You may choose not to listen to me,
But then you may.
The world is full of hidden secrets.
What lies beneath the golden shell may be rotten.
But what lies beneath a rotten shell may be golden,
And, you know it’s easier to get through a rotten shell.
You are in your own world,
And although you may ignore the most wonderful
People who may come into your life
Who knew?
When you think of it,
A little part of you dies when that man you walk by
Doesn’t say hello
Or maybe doesn’t even look at you.
You think, “Is he deaf? Maybe blind?”

Words to Scream

By Peyton Wilson
Vermont Academy, Grade 10

Lead, ink, stone and paper.
Impermanent, like us all.
Still and motionless, without life
They won’t do at all.
It’s all erased, the chalk, the marble
By the moving sands of time
Inconstant, changing, until it’s faded
And I’ve no more to rhyme.
I want my words to leave a mark
And I want them to sing out loud
They can’t stay inside my heart
Because these words are just too proud.
They want to live, they want to be
Something unachievable by touch of the pen.
They shatter the glass around my voice
And will do so again and again.
They are there, and they are here
Breathing their voice into my head.
Bearing down on me at all sides
Starving to be fed.
Nothing –- my blood, my heart -- can liberate my words
In the way they should be free.
They want to vibrate and create their own world
Until they’re bursting out of me.
And I find, when my vision goes dark,
These words are all I have left.

A letter I won't send to my father

By Sarah Carpenter
Rock Point School, Grade 12

I’m writing this to you
Because you avoided hugging me yesterday
When I was leaving

Because when you do hug me,
you let go too quickly and hold on too loosely

And because when I was eight you took a picture
Of me sleeping, with my face against a pillow

Dad, I watched you
watch me
Fall apart

You hold your pride
I hold my composure

A Little Less Sure

By Liza Duchesneau
Milton High School, Grade 9

You push me off the branch,
Before I am ready.
I can tell from your smirk,
That you know I’m unsteady.
I want you to want me,
I do everything I can.
But I cannot learn to fly,
Before I can stand.

Look at you on your pedestal,
So high and mighty.
If I didn’t love you,
I would’ve pushed you off already.
A "boss" like no other,
So naive and insecure.
And every time you speak,
I’m a little less sure.

Every ounce of my being,
Thinks of you and me as a whole.
But I am a little less sure,
That you’re the perfect mate
For my soul.

My hands move frantically,
As if to curse to the air.
You make me so mad,
That I can no longer bear…

…I can no longer bear,
Your touch on my face.
But all that’s said and done,
Will not erase.

The time keeps unwinding,
As I fall from the tree.
But I know deep in my heart,
That somehow you’ll save me.

Don't You Just Hate it When

By Allyson Paquette
Rochester High School, Grade 10

Waking up too early
Shower’s not getting hot.
Hair won’t stop frizzing
Make-up needs to be bought.

Driving to school
Almost out of gas.
Stalling at the light
Everyone wanting to pass.

Walking down the hall.
Books falling to the ground.
Leaning to pick them up
People just walk around.

Hearing others whisper
Not sure what’s going on.
Heads turn, eyes stare
Something has to be wrong.

Tests get handed back.
All I see is red.
Bringing home a C
Excuses run through my head.

Mom yelling, Dad screaming
Running to my room.
Let music fill my ears.
As I turn up the volume.

Staring at the ceiling.
Wishing it wasn’t there.
Clock still says three
This just isn’t fair.

Don’t you just hate it when
Everything goes wrong?

Questions

By Jasmine Carpenter
Montpelier High School, Grade 9

Looking at him wondering…
He talks about life.
Does he know…
He laughs at our childhood memories.
I feel this way?
He leans over and hugs me.
Does he know…
He says he's happy we're best friends.
That I dream of him?
I hug back and try to not look him in the eyes.
Does he know…
I tell him I'm happy we're friends also.
I'd die for him…
"good" he whispers.
…he doesn't know

A dry patch

By Jessica Austin
Westford Elementary School, 7

The rain dances so
Like flames upon a match
If only I could find
One single dry patch.

Spring

By Tommy Bowen
Benson Village School, Grade 7

Spring
Hot like you’re two feet away
From the sun
The wind
As it compresses
Against your face
Green grass
Between your toes
Like you are getting tickled
By a hot girl
Spring

Converse

By Karlie Kauffeld
Leland and Gray Union High School, Grade 11

The Halloween train
By Taylor Comstock
Brattleboro Area Middle School, Grade 8

Railsville was a peaceful town for the most part, except on Halloween night.
A long time ago, when the railways were first being built through the little town a terrible accident happened. The railway was not supposed to be finished for another week, but all of a sudden an unexpected train was heard rumbling down the track. The crew had not finished the bridge over the wide and deep river that ran through Railsville. It was midnight and the crew was just heading home after a long day's work. Suddenly, one of the workers' dogs started howling toward the moon and then stepped onto the track just as the train whizzed past. The passenger train flew off the unfinished bridge and into the dark depths below. Four hundred and twenty- three lives were lost as the train went down that night, including that of the dog.

Code Hero

By Kerry Johnson
Leland and Gray Union High School, Grade 10

The way a story can change a life
A heart
And opinion.
How a child’s eyes
His smile
His little fingers
Capture ignorance
And innocence.
One would never know
What those eyes have seen
What that mouth has uttered
What those fingers have felt.

But I do….

Those dark brown eyes
Have seen the horror
Of a rifle barrel pointed
To his family’s heads.
They have seen
The fear
Within his mother’s eyes,
The silent surrender
Of his father’s honor.

That chiseled mouth
Has strained to scream
Yet remained still.
It has whispered the words
“Guerillas” and “Nos matan”
(“Guerillas” and “They’ll kill us”)
It has slept for weeks,
Silently obeying
The beatings
And starvation,
Protesting not an option
If life becomes
The desired outcome.

Those smudged brown fingers
Fidgeting to steal the
Guns and claim their freedom
Slowly rub the back of his

The Power of Two

By Lindsay Swanson
Ferrisburgh Central School, Grade 6

Yasdnil opened the big brass doors of her new middle school. Not only did Yasdnil have the weirdest name ever, but she had a pretty unique sense of fashion. She had tie-dyed hi-top socks up to her knees with a matching mini skirt, faded from her wearing it so much, and coated with grass stains. She had on a neon red and yellow shall with a white, frilly button-up shirt under it. Looking around, she knew that her life was ruined.
As kids passed her she could hear whispers and she could only assume they were about her. “I can do this,” she thought, “sticks and stones will break my bones, but…”
She was cut off when she ran right into a boy about her age with frizzy red hair and wide-rimmed glasses. Yasdnil fell to the floor and so did the boy.
“Hey look, the losers are taking a trip together!” taunted a voice somewhere out in the crowd. Roaring laughter was heard all around.

Hands

By Eva Theriault
Champlain Valley Union High School, Grade 9

I watched your hands and
they were young
and mine were old.
I watched your hands click your pencil
and write a
word
that wasn't meant for me.
But I took it.
I took all that you gave me and you shook my hand.
You knew what it was
and maybe you thought I did
and maybe I was
asking for too much
and maybe I wouldn't have shook it
if it wasn't a hand stamped with
"just friends."
My hands were there
that day.
They touched your shirt and
not your shoulders.
Your hands touched my shirt
and not my waist.
But I took it
I knew I had to.
I looked at your hand
little bits of cut-up light
from the DJ
flew across it and
I shook it and it was over
but I thought it wasn't.
I watched your hand grab mine and
I watched you run away
with it
and I followed.
And after you dropped my hand and I wished
you wouldn't and
I didn't know how to thank you and
I never did
and your hands were never