anthology08

In the Next Life

By Amelia Seman
Essex High School, Grade 9

In the next life,
when we're not so afraid,
we'll do things
we always wanted to
but didn't dare.

We'll throw ourselves off
mossy cliffs
into deep clear pools
and swim down to the bottom
to see the colorful fish.

We'll climb huge redwood trees
all the way to the top
and lean out,
far out,
pretending to be birds.

We'll run barefoot
across grassy plains,
pounding up hills
and tumbling down
till we stop and fall down,
out of breath.

We'll play on the river
covered in ice
in the middle of the night,
our frosty breath
revealed by the moonlight
shining through the tree branches.

We'll only stop
when we can't go anymore,
and then we'll fall into our beds
and sleep,
and sleep,
and sleep.

Would Have . . .

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

“Your Grandmother would have loved you”
they tell me
When I come dancing out of my room,
in a teal feather boa.
When I clip enormous flashy earrings
onto my tiny earlobes.
When I belt out Elvis Presley’s “Hound Dog”
for my chuckling family.
When I insist that dressing up in my nice Easter dress
is, in fact, wearing a fairy skirt with spotted pink tights.
When I beg to buy a shirt
spattered with magentas and greens.
When I carry the silver, sequin-covered prom dress
into the tiny dressing room
remarking, “Gee, this does look good!”
always,
“Your Grandmother would have loved you”

You’d trip,
And fall down the stairs
He would say,
“If you’re gonna be stupid,
You better be tough.”

You’d be riding your bike
You’d hit a bump
And fall forward over the handle bars
He would say,
“If you’re gonna be stupid,
You better be tough.”

You’d drop your fork underneath the table
You’d bend down to pick it up
You’d sit up and hit your head on the table
He would definitely say
“If you’re gonna be stupid,
You better be tough.”

After a while you think,
All this is,
Is common sense,
You just like to hear him say it
You would wait,
And think,
And then act stupid again
He doesn’t say a thing.

You cry yourself to sleep at night
Wishing he would,
Say it just one more time
But he can’t
And you know it.
You just don’t want to believe it.

Right about now,
He would probably say,
"Toughen' up,
Buttercup."

But tears would still
Be falling

I sit here
And wonder
Why
I can write
These words
Straight out
Of my soul
And share them
With total strangers
When I cant
Even tell my friends
What I feel

Sunlight streamed through the gaps between the crinkled branches. The hills overflowed with green grass swaying with serenity. A small girl with tear-stained cheeks sprawled on her back in the quiet shade the dying willow provided with its dark emerald leaves.

April laid there more often then not. The soft grass perfectly cushioned her tired back and left tiny smears on her flowy shirt. In the shade of the dilapidated tree, she was more than safe. She was alone.

From all those times when there was no way to spill out all the wrongness, she could escape. From the times she opened her mouth wide and screamed silently so that no one would scare, she could be gone. From every difference, worry, frustration in her life, she could break free.

The tree and the hills and the grass couldn’t heal her issues. Even if they could, April herself would not be healed. But for then, it was enough for her to lay and feel the green.

"Twigs"

By Daniel Wyman
Montpelier High School, Grade 12

We feed from the same earth
spring from the same tree
yet I shiver to think the same lifeblood
is shared between you and me.

You offer yourself to the worms
change colors absent of fall
and drink the most toxic of rain.

From my branch I don't know
whether to shield you with my leaves
or let the corruption course through your capilaries
as you dissolve inside and out.

Fear's Disgrace

By Moya Cavanagh
Browns River Middle School, Grade 8

Today Fear came to me,
a pretty young woman offering
lies swathed in honey, which
I never cease to believe.

Today Fear reached out to me,
with a soothing hand to ease away
my apprehension.
And when, as always, I had slipped
Into her trap,
She flicked her wrist,
brought her hand back in a slap,
So that the pain and noise echoed from
My cheek bone.

Today Fear came to me,
Swaddling me
with lightning speed,
in bindings woven
from my worst imaginings.

Today Fear spun that cord around my joints,
Her icy fingers leaving my body rigid
As a board,
And my jaw free to babble
about what she had done to me
To the outside world;
Those who cannot see her tie
the last of my bindings to herself,
So as to eternally link us.
So I will never be free of her
Face.

Today Fear took me,
and the reasoning of her persuasive voice
has festered in my flaws.
Branding itself into my skin,

Tiny Terrors

By Courtney Perry
Bellows Falls Union High School, Grade 9

Eight spindly hairy legs
Crawling on the ceiling
While numerous tiny glinting eyes
All focus on the railing;
A slim pale hand is resting there,
The perfect landing pad
The legs swing freely toward the spot
A loud clear scream is heard

“Get it off! Ew! Get it off!”
She shakes her fingers in disgust
Eight furry legs come to rest on the ground
Many glaring eyes glance up in distrust
Such a skittish little girl is she,
Her face could not be whiter
Her friends are laughing long and loud
As she faces off with a tiny spider

Sometimes, I feel like nothing. My perception of the world nose-dives, the picture in my mind's eye burns and I'm left as ashes, worthless, useless, a relic of the past stuck in the future.

I don't know if it's a problem with being an adolescent or my mind on stress, but it doesn't matter right now. All that matters is that I know how to stop it from getting any worse.

I grab a book. I boot up a game. I start to type. I sit down and look outside. Breaking the cage I place around myself not through force, but by pretending I'm outside it, by becoming someone or something else, immersing myself in another world.

I become the detective, eschewing witnesses and pulling apart a case, piece by piece.

I become the commander, the enemy pressing on my lines, the trenches broken, the combat overwhelming but the situation normal.

Butterflies

By Rachel Dubois
Benson Village School, Grade 8

Butterflies,
You give me butterflies
When you look at me like that.
So many butterflies
Flying around inside me.
I love it
This feeling you bring
These butterflies that sing
That constant ring
Of your voice
In my head
From all your butterflies…
But baby,
I must admit
Those butterflies
Are kind of scary sometimes.
They tell me
I love you
And I know
I do,
And they tell me
I could do so many things with you
Some of which I may regret.
These butterflies
They’re right
I could go so far with you
So fast
Without stopping
Or catching my breath,
Because these butterflies you give me
When you look at me like that
Oh, So many butterflies
Flying around inside me.
I love it
All of it
And all of you
And this feeling
Is alive
And Baby
It’s true
But,
We have to be modest
We have to stay cool
And listen to our heads
And not just our hearts
And not just to those butterflies.

I asked her why she only goes out in the rain,
soaked through to the bones that
stick out
like recklessly placed nails.
Her hair too long,
her clothes too strange,
she really had no way to blend in.
A bag in her hand,
drenched with rain as well.
A taxi wouldn't come,
I knew.
They weren't as careless
as I thought this neglected girl was.
Torrents,
they would have killed her had she not been
so strong.
I told her she didn't have to run away,
she said she was simply leaving;
to find her place.
It wasn't here,
but she knew it was somewhere on this large earth,
and she was going to
find it.
I asked her why she had to do this;
she said:
"Because you told me I would
never
be able to."

Mud

By Makenzie Baker
Hartford Memorial Middle School, Grade 8

Mud.
When the snow is
all gone and
the grass is dead and
the ground is all muddy and
puddles are everywhere.
I remember when I
Was young I would slip my rain boots on and
hop in the gooey mud puddles and
I would always get stuck.
Mud was my best friend then.
Mud pies were the best.
I would have mud on my hands and
I would walk into the house and I would hear
"Get that mud out of the house!"
Those were the days
When I didn't care about getting dirty.

It's Easy Being Green

By Tim Lyons
Rice Memorial High School, Grade 9

Is it really that hard
Being green
and blending in
wherever you go?
Making up a beautiful forest scene
or a grassy plain.
You look nice,
but you never stick out.
You’re just part of the background.
People see you
but they never really notice you.
They just pass you by
after they catch a glimpse of you
as if you were a pebble
on a cobblestone path.
You’re just an addition
and not really anything
on your own, by yourself.
You’re a tree on a mountain
a lily pad in a massive lake
a leaf of lettuce in a salad.
There’s less pressure,
less hassle, less strain on you.
You can just be part of scenery
and go with the flow.
It’s less dangerous that way
and much easier.
But the most significant people
ever to walk this earth
were not green.
They were red.
They were yellow.
They were turquoise.
Those colors stand out
in the unvarying scenery
of static green.

today i made;
rainbow brownies.
my sister said
what are you doing?

i am making rainbow brownies

she said you can't
make brownies rainbow because
they are brown
and that's why they're
called

brown
ies

i can make rainbow
brown
ies i said

want to see?

she blinked when i
reached for the
m&ms.

Mirror Dance

By Misha Kydd
Mount Mansfield Union High School, Grade 9

She echoes his movements,
His thoughts,
His very being.
Too weak to stand on her own,
She reflects his
Ways,
Ideas,
His love.

Softly she glides
Over his features,
Assuming his repose,
His lyrics to life,
Forgetting that she has
Her own.

She schools her expression
To show only what he
Wants to see,
Only what he's seen
Before.

She fights her way
Delicately into his
Graces,
Not realizing she didn't have
To fight
At all.

The Daily Read

By Matteo Bjornsson
Woodstock Union High School, Grade 10

As I get my daily news from the walls
Of the bathroom stalls,
I read so much needless hate
That the last user felt the need to make.
Why is it people need to declare such words at all,
In this meaningless place on the wall?

Reflection

By Rachel Sullivan
Burlington High School, Grade 11

"I hate you."
She looks up, startled, innocently wide eyes gazing back, astonished, into my own.
"Look at you. You're repulsive. How can I not hate you?"
She looks down, fingering the worn, tattered edges of her graying hoodie, her breath catching audibly in her throat.
"You're disgusting. I bet that hasn't been washed in weeks."
She looks up quickly, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes, making them shine in the harsh lighting.
"And lets not forget those jeans," I add, glancing down at the hole-riddled atrocities, "they really don't do anything for that pear shape you've got going on."
Her hands go immediately, almost protectively, to her midsection, causing her to double over slightly, shoulders hunching in shame.
I shake my head at her, "It's too bad none of those diets are working for you. Seriously. You must just have been a born cow, since you hardly eat anything."

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.

Being afraid
is a state of mind
that should be overcome
so I do what I can.
I have held a beetle

Iraq

By Haley Rae Harder
Renaissance School, Grade 4

When I think of Iraq,
I think of my father overseas.
I think of Cacti, not trees.
I think of war and sadness,
I think of fight and madness.
I think of a dozen kinds of planes,
I think it is a pleasure when it rains.
I think of cracked, hot dry sand.
I think of everything deserting the land.
But most of all,
I think from Baghdad’s big domes,
of my father coming home.

The lights are dim.
The world is full of colors.
Dark greens and reds. Blues and greens.
I feel the music pumping through me.
His arms are around me.
Nothing can interrupt us.
Movement.
We don't stop moving.
His body completely in time with mine.
We are both sweaty and gross but who cares?
Not him. Not I.
Laughter.
He twirls me in circles.
The world still spins when I stop.
We keep laughing.
We don't have a care in the world.
Passion.
His forehead is on mine.
Our eyes are locked.
Everyone is surrounding us, but it's only he and I.
Nothing can break this connection

The music stops.

But we don't care.
We are in a place where time is frozen.
And nothing can interrupt us.

somewhat of a play off of "Charades"

I wake up
Walk over to my closet
Open it
and view
my collection
of masks

One for every occasion
every emotion

Hard-faced masks
for when I don't want you
to see me cry.

Jolly masks
for when I want you
to think I'm happy.

Sad masks
for when I'm alone
and I know you can't see me.

An entire production
A masquerade
A performance
All put on for you

So how do you like it?

It's a double-edged sword, though.
Because every time
I put on a mask
they become harder to take off.
It's becoming an escape act now.
I'm a regular Houdini, no?

It's painful to keep up
with my disguises all the time, however
So hopefully you're loving this show
otherwise I don't know
why I'm even on stage.

Viewpoint

By Bridget Iverson
Mount Mansfield Union High School, Grade 9

It's easy
To ignore her
With the side-swept bangs
And the same type of shirt
They all wear.
There's nothing about her
That makes you look twice.

On Eloquence

By W.T. Smith
Hanover High School, Grade 11

What would we give for eloquence?
Would we change what we had to say?
What did we do with innocence?
Did we lose it along the way?

How many times are decisions made
By the words that we know how to use?
And how often do we give our dreams away
Because we have to choose?

So if you speak a different tongue,
Will you dream a different way?
So strange how often dreams are hung
On what we have to say.

Walking arm in arm
with the friends we once made
with razor blades
and cigarette burns,
scissor marks tatter the
beauty within.

not always to be noticed.
in fact,
not at all.
the wish to
let it go

without hurting
anyone
but the person it
effects the most.

When we were five
we wanted to be like
Barbie
perfect
beautiful

plastic.

put a razor to her face?
and all you see
is a single scratch.
nothing that won't
fade
with time.

washing my legs
in the shower
I see the track marks
my mother mentions
so
scornfully.

why would
ANYONE
want to hurt themselves?

maybe they don't.
maybe it becomes
an addiction.

maybe its because
they don't want
to hurt
anyone
else.

at least
it was
for me.

Redheads

By Lauren Goldsborough
Champlain Valley Union High School, Grade 9

I have screamed
the anger
and stress
away

and it probably
damaged
your ear
drums.

Forgive me
I'm a red head.
we can get angry.

The Snow

By Lindsay Andersen
Ferrisburgh Central School, Grade 3

In the backyard
The snow falls
From the sky.
I lay down
And watch
As snowflakes fall.
They’re like crystals
Falling from the sky.
Something moves
Out of the woods.
A rabbit,
as white as the snow.
The snow falls
All day
While I watch
With that rabbit.

By Sierra Cruikshank
Rochester High School, Grade 9

I am too afraid to ask her
To see if maybe she regrets
The things I have taken
From her perfect silhouette.
I see the pictures of another time
Another world
Before I was born,

The Race of My Life

By Halie Lange
Brattleboro Area Middle School, Grade 7

Is there one person in your life that seems to always be better or stand out more? Well for me there has. Sarah always beats me in everything. We both ski, and she gets first and I get second; same thing every time. I have many boxes full of red second place ribbons and medals. It seems that no matter how hard I try, she always comes out on top. At our last ski race, she beat me by three seconds. The next race is at my home course and I want to win more than ever.

Mistakes

By Emily Fariel
Hartford Memorial Middle School, Grade 8

Oops… made a mistake.
Colored outside the line.
Oops.
Spelled a word wrong.
Oops…
Every little mistake,
Adds up,
Makes us imperfect,
and human.