YAWP 2021 - 2022


Girl Dancing: by Milena Laputz

Art from Fionna Moran

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In Maine: Winter, Summer, in my room

By Dorcas Bolese

Whiteout, chasing down,



crests of green and pine.

The lingering snow,


morphing into

a rink of ice.

While cheers of children

playing within

the frozen powder–

constructing armies of angels and men.

Their squeals,

from receiving an

Snowball to the face,

waking another

slumbering neighbor

in the late morning.

For them,

the invasive crystalline,

a wall away.

Warmth found

from seclusion

and blankets from

pipes disconnected

Chamomile Tea



the frosty air around.


It takes all,

then runs away


Who would question

the earth flourished,

nurtured, and enchanting.

The evergreen stand

perfectly tranquil,

beside fields of blueberries


and reach the horizon.

Who would comment

on the sun-drenched lush.


Where strangers

are lost and I am welcome

screams of the world

Silence for my comfort

My pristine escapade

A barrier from

the grass bucolic,

from the snow barren

that close in.

Sorrows of Creeper

By Dorcas Bolese

I spawn from emptiness

With an ability so effortless

Never knowing who I am

What I’ll be.

So, I roam the seed

From one rise of one sun

To another one.

The kin of nite pass all around me

Never too close to actually know me

The men undead,

the men of time

The men of bones

and the men of light

With character and life once enjoyed

But I am a bomb that must implode

At the end of the day, it is my purpose

But it all seems worthless

to be A man of lithium,

and gunpowder


No one dear come to close me.

Cycle of Affection

By Dorcas Bolese

I think I love you

The endless hum

of natures buzz,

fertility, and life

Ceases its exhaustion

And hurt because

of the thing we are.

I see the future

of a blossoming bud

The garden as a whole

Life, giving one more eternity

To see us grow

I like you

I am enthralled with hope

Of what we could be

We could share our thoughts

And become one in unison

Merging the opposing magnets

We should be able

to reach for the stars

–We should

Do I know you?

Each guide our blind eyes

Down the distant path

Deaf to our past symphony

And its colors and magic

Tropical now frozen

The target of erosion.

My closest stranger.

Young Martyr

by Dorcas Bolese

In the arms of a stranger

Stabbed by the invisible

Knives of democracy

Of our nation.

The gray sky reflects

Mundane life around.

The redshirt

Red devils, the inner

Evil that consumes

Put out again coated

In sugar and freedom.

Retell your story

Young martyr

Park Jong-cheol,

We see your art.

Your blood nourishes

the soil of today.

Your spirit feeds nations


You will see peace in your path.

You paint with brushes

To reveal the truth.

The world paints with

The blood

Of young marytrs.

We will hold you up

We protect you,

My young Pietá.

Empty Kettles

by Natalie Waloven

Her teapot was occupied

only by the flies

that lingered

on its sides.

They crawled


walked like whispers

on its tarnishing sides.

They searched

for its last sugars

brave enough to come

in open daylight.

But even the flies

did not have

the strength

to venture inside.

They shrouded her.

They broke her memory.

But to clear them

would mean

to look inside

and see her face.

To sigh

and have her voice echo

back like old music.

Clearing them would

bring back her shadow

in one little corner

that can’t be touched.

Perhaps the flies can stay.

The End

by Natalie Waloven

The good

may not

be mere

against their

evilest of


who laugh like

kings and

lick their knives

in the fog that doesn’t show

But when the blood

with which

you breathe

matches that

from your

cut hand,

who’s to say

the blood is not

your own,

in the end?

1877 by Amelia Gardner

Hot gleaming lights bore against her skin,

Her final extravaganza disguised in elegance and grace.

Bewitching pink labored across the stage,

Pointed toes hitting every mark.

Tension grows from the piano’s distress,

Fragile violence breaking in

and onto her dancing fingers,

Illuminating the lost inhibitions,

Unclouded by marked forte

an impending and expected doom.

Coyotes in the Woods - Jack Riddle

Surrounded by coyotes,

horrifying yet amazing to watch,



all around him,

unfazed by the chaos around.

With a calm yet assertive voice

shooting them down one by one

to no avail,

the coyotes continue relentlessly.

I run to stop the conflict,

almost as though I have power over them.

They scatter into the woods,

but the damage had been done.

Why would anyone

stand for something like this?

I tell him, “We should report this,”

He sadly said “no,

they don't care about me.”

I bow my head in silence

knowing it to be true

because, in my youth,

they never listened to me.

Who would listen to a freshman anyway?

Milk and Honey

By: Elena Schlax

An orange tree

It stands alone

She reads inside its shadow

Thinks of the seeds she’s sewn

She wonders of a world

That's beautiful and sunny

She pictures then a land

Flowing with milk and honey

And now she dreams in color

And I just wish I might

See in blues and yellows

Without her, life is black and white

She thinks no one will notice

When she does leave the room

But I notice everything

Down to the color of her shoes

I know she rides a bike

And leaves an open door

Just in case she forgets a key

And must return once more

The orange tree

That still is standing strong

And doesn’t seem to wilt

Is seen dancing ‘til dawn

Still she looks like Dickens wrote her

And DaVinci drew her face

Steinbeck gave her kindness

And Atwood gave her strength

So looking in the mirror

The only thing I see

This child that I love so much

The girl I used to be

But I’m picking up the pieces

And finding her again

But while I’m on my way there

She’ll always be a friend

And orange trees

Are always bright

They sing their songs

And find the light

I hope I grow again like that someday

But time will pass and I’ll grow more away

Spreading my wings- Justin Silver

I lie awake in my chamber watching as the golden sphere rises

And watching as the children play in the fields of freedom

Mourning that I will never have their freedom or even

Taste the joy of being a “normal child’’ but alas

I am a bird in a cage wanting to spread my wings

Souring in the dusky sky. I am afraid of what my

Guardian would think what would they do if they found out

I was not mortal, I was an angel. Nay, I can not let my

Fear controls me any longer I must break off my chain and

spread my wings. As I wait for the gods to give me a sign

I made my mark in the mossy stone wall for the last time

At dawn, I shall leave and spread my wings for the first time in maleness

Yes I will admit every bone in my body is telling me no as I look to the sky

With the town below that I used to call home I was free and thanking the gods

For helping me find my way and spread my wings.

A reminder of my own illiteracy

By Ana Borda

Talking over a two piece phone

Her soft voice lulling metallically

Letters slipping through my fingers

like snow in a child’s warm palms.

The face of a loved one warping

into that of a stranger.

It’s Tia Jimena’s birthday today.

Hoy es el cumpleaños de tia Ximena…


By Mason Small

Joy became a funeral

that celebrated the death of sadness

The sadness whos warm embrace

had been felt for to long

The warm embrace that was always lingering

It was high time for a goodbye

And time for sadness to be replaced with joy

Joy overwhelming

Joys embrace was new

With a different kind of warmth

A good warmth like a hug

Not like the warmth of sadness

Like the warmth of a flame

Burning your skin

The words that were never spoken

by- anonymous

The words that were never spoken

The time I wish I could have back

The minutes I missed

How selfish I was

The card I never sent

Something you could see but never saw

Like an owl hidden in its nest high in the pine tree

The chances I never took

The time I took for granted

All I wanted was to say I’m proud

That I love you one last time

But yet here I am left with all these words

All the things racing through my head

The sound I hear

The happiness we could share

However the ball doesn’t always stay in the air

It has to hit the ground at the worst time

Oh the words that were never spoken

The wings you grow as you elevate in the sky

But sink in the dirt

Oh the words I could never speak

Pure upon arrival

By Owen T.

Fluid, Liquid is clear and


It seeps up into everything

when you least expect.

The air is cool and coff

I walk through the forested


not knowing when it will

ever be me big and tall

who consumes it all or a

little tatty thing like a roach

purging the most essence

of its host. The vineyard is

almost starting to escape

cradling marmite to the river

to sink in the everlasting well

and welts into the essence itself.

When I finally reach the beach,

the grape (like a pearl) is so pure.

By Anonymous

Eyes shining

like an apple freshly waxed.

Swinging braids

that dance when the wind blows.

Your laughter tickling my brain

filling my heart with warmth,

that not even the winter winds

could scare away.

Your breath on my neck soft,

like the petals of cecilia’s.

When I bury my nose

into your soft, blue hair

I smell apple pie

freshly baked

sitting on the window sill

As the wind blows

Your smile glows,

Brighter than a thousand suns.

And I know

That I love you.

Poem Titled "Free" by an Anonymous Freshman





A state of being

A noun

An act

A past


Is how i should feel


From the constraints

Placed on people


from worrying about money or food


from half thought out plumes

Of love


from being told

I’m not enough


From having to rise above my station


From having to fight for my own sanction


I am free

From all but me

Never free from the expectation

Of knowing you're headed somewhere

Never free

From this mind-crushing panic

Swarming my senses when I least expect it

Taking over my thoughts

Holding me in one place

Drowning me under the load

Of having to go through another day

Always waiting in fear

Of when anxiety will strike

And that when it does

I won’t be able to hide

Crowd my face with a smile

Keep all this panic down deeper than a mile


By Sally Higgins


I just think you're so amazing

you just brighten every single room

That's what you said to me

And for a split second, I believed it was true

Believed you thought it to your core

Believed it like a dream

I can’t remember anymore

And I haven't forgotten

The pit you pulled me out of

The pit of grease and slime

of hatred and self-doubt

But I just can’t seem to forget

That it was you who pushed me in

Who through no fault of your own

Left me hanging by a thread

And you said I was amazing

That you were always there for me

And that lines up perfectly

With the person I painted you to be

The flawless ethereal goddess

Swooping down on golden wings from the sky



Unreal human

Who somehow let me sit by their side



By Sally Higgins

I would take a photograph

On this stage where I stand

One microphone in hand

Our hands not mine

Your hand


So I turn to the side

left side

Turn to look at you

See your face

Your eyes

your truth

See your confidence

In saying

What is hard to hear

But a needed new

And all I can think

Is that if I could paint

I would paint a picture of you

If I had a camera

Nothing would stop me

From taking a photograph of you

From this exact angle

I look up at you from

Seeing 3/4ths of your face

From just under the sun

I’m just the right hight

To get this perfect sight

And all I can think

Is that if I wasn’t me

I would take a photograph of you


By Sally Higgins

Confidence is a finicky thing

It comes and goes on a breeze

An unpredictable pattern

Of when I can wear skirts above my knees

Or when I have to hide my body

My skin my flaws my self

Because confidence will leave you stranded

If it's given by someone else

Each day is a performance

As I preach about self-love

Reminding each passing person

That their body fits them like a glove

That they are perfect no matter what

That their shine outdoes that stars

Yet when I get home at night

my mirror is covered in iron bars

And I try to love this body I’m in

But is my confidence worth anything

If it’s only there

when I see myself as thin


By Sally Higgins

Pop tops

Pop socks

Pop band

Playing on the rocks

Pop-out of time where your mind was a clock

Tik tik tiking

Down to a stop

Because time doesn't halt

When the music goes pop

1960’s rock with the fluffy hair on top

Give a little get a little

Music doesn't stop

Pop pop pop

Popcorn in the bowl

Butter dripping like a waterfall

Loosening your hold

Hold onto life

Like life holds on to you

Don’t go pop when your only 52

Don’t just stop when your only 53

Don't give it up when your only 54

55 is the limit guess you popped out your soul

Art piece by Delaney McDonough

Milena Laputz: narrative clay snail story

Milena Laputz: Slab Clay Flower House

Nest Drawings made in Mrs. Houston's recent art class

Top Down:

Evie King: ink, acrylic, colored paper

Fionna Moran: ink, paper

Milena Laputz: ink, acrylic, colored pencil

Isabel Peters: ink, acrylic, paper

A Short Story Written by an Anonymous Freshman

It was just another day in Windsor High School and right now I was in science class listening to Mr. Small rant about how teachers should get better healthcare. I sat at my table as my foot tapped the ground to the beat of the music that was playing in my left Airpod. Mr. Small had no way of finding out though because I had strategically put my pink highlighted hair over my ear to hide it. My eyes dragged up to the old white clock that had been on Mr. Small’s wall for decades. Five minutes later I was dismissed from that awfully boring science class and I was finally free to have lunch with my friends.

“Damn,” The boy next to me laughed.

“I think Mr. Small woke up on the wrong side of the coffin today huh, Lainie.” I laughed at this boy’s joke as I stood up slowly from the cramped desk and stretched. I was feeling tired but not too tired to start some small talk with this boy.

“He should be ranting about life insurance instead.” I looked at the boy and he seemed to smile through his mask as we started to laugh. I felt better after that. Sometimes it was hard to communicate with people with masks on because you could never tell if they were being sarcastic or brutally honest. I gave one last look at Mr. Small as I slipped out of the grey and quiet classroom and into a loud, bustling hallway full of colorful people and personalities. I slipped past of mob of loud varsity basketball boys and as I did I heard one shout,

“Are you kidding? The Warriors are ten times better than the Nets. You have absolutely no taste bruh.” I glanced behind my shoulder at the tall, skinny boys whose whole lives seem to revolve around adult men throwing balls into hoops and I couldn’t help but laugh. If you were to take away their love of sports and all things having to do with ‘balls’, they’d probably turn out to be inverted guys who stay in their rooms playing Clash of Clans all day. Because of course, that was how they communicated and connected with each other. Through other people’s triumphs and other people’s drama. That last bit almost sums up all of Windsor High School. Some of us are so dulled down, not even the most traumatic event in history could make them less self-centered than they already were. Unless that came down to talking dirt about someone. That was as far as they went to thinking about other people.

The hallways had shiny grey and blue speckled floors that seemed to sparkle when the light from the grand windows in the front hit them. The trophy cases lining the sides were filled with pictures and medals and trophies from and of Windsor High’s greatest athletes. Strangely enough, not one case on those walls had room for any of the awards the art department kids won. Windsor had its priorities and those priorities littered the free wall space. The posters had acronyms spelling out positive words telling kids to ‘be kind’ and ‘spread positivity’. My personal favorite was the ‘stick up for the underdog’ sign that was plastered above the water fountain right in front of a group of varsity hockey boys shoving a mathlete to the ground. In their eyes, that mathlete didn’t have enough of the athlete in mathlete to matter to them. Even though I felt terribly for the boy on the ground, I immediately averted my eyes when the hockey boys looked my way. It was one thing to be a bystander, but another thing to be the one on the ground. I swore at the hockey boys under my breath as I passed them, clinging on to the backpack straps, but thankfully they didn’t hear me. That was about as heroic I could be at this moment in time. I was stopped in the hall by a girl, one with shiny brown hair that framed her face angelically. She had a clean-looking white sweater with lavender-colored pants as she put a well-manicured hand on the shoulder of my hoodie.

“Lainie!” She gasped. “Your new hair is so… different! I don’t normally like pink hair on people but you really make it your own.” I stared into her wide, blue eyes with my tired brown ones and sighed internally.

“You do know I’ve had my hair dyed pink for at least a week and a half now, right Paige?” I questioned, laughing a little. I couldn’t help being intimidated.

“Ooh,” she bemused, removing her hand from my shoulder. I wonder if I smell bad. Does my hoodie have a stain? I tried to push away my insecure thoughts but couldn’t help looking down at my hoodie to check.

“Well, that must be because you’re finally wearing it down!” Paige was really pushing the charisma today.

“It’s normally in that messy bun of yours you seem to love so much.” Now, this is normal Paige.

“It’s nice to see you too Paige,” I said, pushing past her and continuing down the hall and onto the stairs.

“Wait!” She pulled my backpack. I whipped around and I could feel the anger bubbling in me. I wish I could tell her to go away but she seemed determined to end our conversation on a good note.

“I-I didn’t mean to offend you…I was just pointing it out Lainie!” She put her hand on my shoulder again and looked at me earnestly, but I shrugged her hand off and looked away.

“I know I know,” I responded. I looked back at her,

“I know you’re trying to fix our old friendship, but it’s just not meant to be. People change a lot, especially during high school and I think we’re better off being just classmates instead of besties. Okay?” Her hand was now in the back pocket of her jeans and her shoulders slumped. Our roles changed as she began to recoil from me and I watched as her synthetic charisma faded.

“I just don’t understand why we can’t be friendly towards each other,” Paige whined.

“I know I took Paul from you, but that was this summer and I’ve grown up since then!” I was already tired before I left Mr. Small’s boring class but now I was even more fatigued.

“Can we not have this talk right now?” I spoke, a little firmer now. Her eyes darted nervously from the hockey boys behind us, then to me. The hockey boys were beginning to get bored of kicking the mathlete and were beginning to disperse. Paige finally looked away from me and nodded. I took one last moment as I let what had happened sink in. I knew she was trying to rekindle this old relationship, but I just wasn’t done with what had happened this summer. I breathed in and turned on my heel just as I heard the hockey boys begin to talk about last night’s game.

“Did you see how #14 played last night? He was shit! He must’ve changed or something in the last season because he didn’t use to suck this much.” That’s when I reached the bottom of the stairs. The shiny, clean stairs that I had been walking up and down for three years now. Three years of almost the same drama every day. There were always the rowdy boys arguing about sports loudly in the halls between classes. Always a relationship that needed to be mended or broken off that would be addressed in the most awkward of times. Because that was what high school was. A bunch of awkward teens trying to decide on what to worry about. Their drama or somebody else’s. Or maybe if they were feeling fussy, they would create drama themselves. That poor mathlete.

The Darker Side of the Woods

By Mira Snow

He could barely see as it was, and the oppressive darkness of the woods wasn’t helping. Jake trudged through the dark forest as the fog became thicker and thicker. He was beginning to think that this halloween dare wasn’t worth the five pieces of candy. This forest was like a legend in their small town. You go in and you never come out, it was a story parents told their kids if they ran off too far. But Jake wasn’t scared, it was just a forest, what’s so scary about that? As he continued on he started to hear noises around him, he only had to walk straight in for five minutes than walk out. His timer on his phone went off suddenly causing him to nearly jump out of his skin. The five minutes were up. Jake spun on his heel and began to walk the direction he came in. He had walked for about a minute when something caught his eye. The small figurine stared at him like it was passing some sort of judgment. The little golden statue sat on a rock that definitely wasn’t there before.

“Um, hello?” Jake called shakily into the darkness, there was no response. “Guys this isn’t funny!” Jake spun in circles trying to catch sight of one of his friends, he knew they had to be there somewhere. Who else would have known about the figurine that he hid away years ago other than them? A branch snapping behind him sent the sudden silence echoing away from him. Jake turned around, a scream lodged in his throat…

“Hey guys? You think we should go after him?” Mathew turned to his buddies, they hadn’t seen Jake in 15 minutes and he was starting to worry about his friend.

“Nah bro, look! Here he is now!” One of the guys pointed into the woods at Jake stumbling out. Mathew sat up in relief and clapped his friend on the shoulder.

“Hey man, what did you see in there?” Mathew got a closer look at him in the light of the flashlights and nearly dropped his own. The bags under Jake’s eyes were so deep they looked like bruises. His nails were caked in dirt and he showed a wide toothy grin, something Mathew had never seen on his friends face before.

“There was nothing in there bro. Just some trees,” Jake giggled, sending a shiver down Mathew’s spine, “hey why don’t you sleep over at my house tonight?” He said, turning to look menacingly at Mathew. “We’ll have so. Much.. fun…”

The only noise the neighbors heard that night was a scream, and no one heard from Mathew again.

Poem of Love

By Mira Snow

Golden flowers; golden sun; golden rocks and golden fun; molten kisses and molten love; molten sweets and molten destruction. Murderous looks, killing glares, stabbing words, painful scars. Silver people; silver tongue; lying heart; burning shards.





New healing. Bronze hope. Kind smiles.





Golden flowers; golden sun; golden rocks and golden fun; golden rings and golden love.

Together ♥️ forever.


by Maya Faulstich

I forget how it started

I forget how she became my friend

She’s just always been there

I remember knocking on her door almost every day, and asking her if we could play

I forget the times we fought, if we ever did fight

I remember sitting in my room with her, dreaming up stories of good and evil, before I realized the world isn’t all black and white

I remember swinging in my backyard, jumping in leaves, planting a garden, her brown curly hair

always getting knotted and tangled.

I forget the day she went away

I remember her garage sale, and how the neighbors bought her scooter

She gave my sister her purple stuffed bunny.

I forget what she said to me when she went away on the last day.

I remember the hole she left.

Empty and gaping in my stomach.

I forget who lived in the house before her, I forget who lives there now, but I remember she lived there.

I remember the music that came from her house at night.

I remember her smile, I forget her eyes.

I remember feeling alone. Scared.

Without her, who am I?

I forget.

The In-Between

by Maya Faulstich

The Bible says God made two great lights, and separated day from night.

Created mankind in his own image, “male and female he created them”.

Yet we’ve all seen the wonders right before the sun breaks

that moment in time, that place in space

We call it dawn.

We’ve all seen the glamour of a suspended sun

sparkling, reflecting, every bright bold shade before the darkness invades

We call it sunset.

So why can’t we see the beauty in the people of the in-between?

Identities flowing like a river, bridging land and sea

colour bursting from the seams

Those who need not choose between

day or night

black or white.

Why trap a person inside boxes labelled

boy or girl?

What would we be without

the dawns, sunsets, rivers,

and rainbows of the world?

The Show Is Over

by Maya Faulstich

I've always been afraid of fireworks

Not because of the bright bold blinding colors

Not because of the loud split-second


echoing throughout the night sky


It's not the big boom that makes my fists clench tight,

it's not the little sparks

showering me like sea-spray that make me squeeze my eyes shut with fright

While my family cheers along with the crowd

my eyes blur out the sparkling show

My gaze focuses

upon the heavy ominous cloud

of smoke




Away from the stunning colors that have them all hypnotized

Back behind the curtain that draws the line between the performance and backstage


swarm my head



air so polluted you can't see past your coughing neighbor

A world

without nature

A sky

without stars

How are the people so blinded that they can only see the dazzling illusion

of Bright Booming Colors?

They ooh and ah and in their awe

They forget

That beautiful things can be made by ugly

Every perfect utopia has a twisted dystopia hidden inside

And when I look behind

the flashing colors

See beyond

the booms and bangs

Gaze into the dark starless sky

And watch

the cloud of smoke

I reach

But there's nothing to grab





And the visitors picking up their picnic blankets

The show is over

But I still sit there


the heavy ominous cloud

of smoke




Beyond m y c o n t r o l

Art by Madeline Corson: an oil painting based on the 1882 painting by Henry Chase

Poem by Sally Higgins

Penny for your thoughts?

A penny’s worse than nought

Is that all you think I’m worth

A simple cent of old crushed dirt?

A piece of faded copper

All greened over stamped design

A single little penny?

To show you what’s on my mind?

My mind is worth its weight in gold

A dime a quarter, a dollar for its hold

My mind is open as the rushing sea

Yet a penny is all you bring before me?

My thoughts could level mountains

My dreams could change the tides

Yet one unassuming penny

Is all you hold inside

How much is your mind worth?

What would you charge for a talk by your hearth?

A dime, a dollar, a dozen golden eggs?

I would gladly pay to sit and talk all-day

I would talk of open fields and briar

Stories and legends told to me as a child

I would talk of what is and what could come to be

I would talk of the deep dark mourning of the sea

I would talk of our world and why it was

The thoughts of an age at last come undone

But you opened your fist and all I could see

Was a single cent penny

Greened with age

An unprotected page

Worthless in the eyes of fate

So I took that old green penny

I washed off the dirt and grime

I polished it with china-scrub

And waited for it to shine

Then as water once again ran clear, I could not contain my glee

For not just a simple penny had you given me

But a beautiful piece of our history

For inscribed on this penny

was a faint little date


Massachusetts. Eighteen-o-eight


By Tatiana Coyne

In the eighteen-hundreds,

a movement started to form.

Throughout the young United States,

the concept of unions were born.

See the workers worked within factories

where they stayed twelve hours or more

their labor given not for their bosses

but for their families who were made poor.

And deep within these factories

where machinery groaned and roared,

the prayers and pleas of workers abused

were silently ignored.

These were not their only qualms, though,

as you could probably guess,

their own Children dying in the mines below

made the “lower classes” quite distressed.

And in these eighteen-hundreds

it was decided something had to be done,

so the workers joined hands

and went on strike,

united as one.

But the bosses they wern’t stupid,

they were callous, cunning, and keen

to destroy a movement of workers,

and preserve them as machines.

So out of the fear of freedom

and out of a lust for greed

they turned to events in the country

that would make the workers concede.

See the plight of the working class was not the only plight occurring

For deep within the United States racial animus was stirring

And so one fateful day

while the strike was ongoing

the bosses exploited the racial hatred

in America that was growing.

And now, dear reader, I must confess that our story gets quite sadder,

for the workers, pale in complexion, allowed their movement to be shattered.

For then they arrived at a crossroads

where they had to make a choice:

they choose to stick with ignorance

and, therefore, gave up their voice.

They became divided

on something as stupid as color;

and while they fought amongst themselves,

their bosses soon recovered.

And by the time the workers woke

from their xenophobic slumber,

the bosses they had won,

and the workers were outnumbered.

But don’t fret, dear worker,

for within your working life

there is always a chance to free yourself

from the perils of working strife.

But please, my dear worker,

listen to these humble words––

You cannot build a union strong

upon ignorance, hate, and fear.

Becoming a Woman

By Colleen Lynch

Woman is beautiful

Woman is smart

Woman is strong

But not as beautiful, smart, and strong as man

Growing up, no one tells you women are seen as less.

They try to protect you.

They don’t tell you that today at recess, you’ll be left out of a kickball game

Because you’re a girl.

They don’t tell you that a grown man will say to you that you can’t be the first female president,

It’s too hard for a woman, ‘realistically’.

They don’t tell you a boy in your math class will assume you’re stupid

Because ‘girls are always stupid’.

They don’t tell you about a lot of things

I wish they would.


By: Tessa Martin

“Chestnuts roasting on an open fire..”

“Ok guys! Get ‘em while it’s hot!” the family rushed to their mother. Father, daughter, and dog, all coming to get a taste of the mom’s delicious cooking.

“I’ll tell ya, hun, you can’t get food quite like this anywhere else!” The father chortled and kissed his wife on the cheek.

“Ok everyone,” the yellow-orange-haired daughter cheered, “it’s time to hold hands and give thanks for this meal!”

“Yuletide carols being sung by a choir..”

They gave thanks to the farmers who graced their table with their wheat and fruit. They gave thanks to their family for passing down recipes upon recipes.

They gave thanks to their good friend, who graciously gave away their body and mind for this meal.

“Alright, time to eat!” With the loud clap of the hands from the father, the family ate with peace and togetherness.

“Ma, you know I don’t like hair in mine!” The girl slowly and delicately pulled black hairs out of her sacred meal, chunks of the meat still latching onto each strand. “Ok,” she said, “that’s better.”

“Just put it here sweety,” the mom said with a kind smile. She neatly wrapped up the obsidian hairs in a floral cloth napkin and put it to the side.

“Merry Christmas to you..”

Written by YAWP club members during club meeting

A fallen leaf hides

A mask limp on the damp earth

Once a protection

The darkness oozes

Abandoned house on the street

Wind whistles through

Inbetweenness falls,

Twilight’s upon the aching world

Leaves start to cascade

Leaves falling from trees

Made a collage of colors

Orange, red, and green

Watch the falling leaves

As you hide behind your mask

Watch them drift and swirl

Stay apart, wear masks

Watch your germs and your distance

But still watch the leaves

Kids afraid of ghosts

Scary stories of monsters

Now raise back your mask

Hello there pumpkin

Are you feeling down today

Here's a candle

Happy Halloween

Boo! Says the ghost with the large grin

Bye! Says skeleton

What is up my friend

Leaves changing pretty colors

OH NO! Your branch died

Questions? Find our emails here!


Lilia Sawhney: y2023lilsaw@yarmouthschools.org

Mira Snow: y2023mirsno@yarmouthschools.org

Matilda: matildagraymurray@gmail.com

Emma Sammon: y2023emmsam@yarmouthschools.org