Young Writers Society

We Danced

I always knew to find you at a dance I just had to look
for the largest group of guys.
your guys, we all called them,
but you weren’t a cat with her toys,
you were the center of a round table
whose trunk was a smile, laughter, a listening ear
that invited anyone and everyone to the feast.

the nights bled into blurry circles of
a light hand on my waist and the thrill
of turning to music I couldn't hear
because I was chatting with the guys
(sometimes yours!)
who asked me to dance.

and I punched the air at every drop
because we were all patriots
in a land that welcomed everybody,
and you were most fervent of all; you scoured away
the cobwebs and dirt and quicksand
I didn’t know how to clean.

once
you sang for me, just for me
because both of us had no one to dance with.
it was you and me
and the most beautiful song I know
in the back of the gym where the open doors
let in a little fresh air.
I think one of those tears you would bottle for me
crept down my cheek then,
but I never told you
because I didn’t want this one wiped away.

(Stage 3, #2)

Metropolitan

[REDACTED FOR POSSIBLE PUBLICATION]

(Stage 4, #4)

I like this story

@captainearth Why, thank you!

Yellow Rivers

rivers run yellow down our driveway
and even the dry-cleaned inside air hangs heavy
on the shoulders.

it’s swimsuit time and the puddles
are just small pools to play in.
the rain is light and warm like Mom’s shower
and although my glasses are splattered I can smear
them on my swimsuit.

but the air is painted with the call of a thousand flowers
and the water is laced with their perfume.
springtime in the south is always fun and games
until the sneezing starts.

no problem meandbooks

The Scenic Route

road trips are bringing a bag full of books
and reading every one of them in a day
and going through every one of my playlists.
they’re pit stops every two hours
and everyone has to get out and stretch
although it takes forever
to pack the minivan full again.

they’re bags of surprises we get on the hour – bribes
and fighting over music and toys and anything else
because half the car can’t handle
ten minutes of silence.
(at least until it’s ten pm,
the sun has faded,
and the car rolls on)

above all, they’re changing landscapes,
and staring out the window for an hour
drinking it in.
because maybe I don’t get to see the world
but driving is the scenic route, and
the amber waves and purple mountains
are as beautiful as the songs say.

(Stage 2, #4)

Ink-Free

ink-free tests aren’t enough

when my circle of friends is exactly
two points and i don’t know how to go downtown –
names on fabric are just words
and neon shop lights set off the smoke detector in my head
although i hate hate smog i can’t always convince myself that
the nights in front of a screen or a page baking my passions
aren’t empty sweets no matter what i make

because what is my life without people and
how how how did i get so bad at remembering names
and why doesn’t school teach you something useful like
what do people do when they hang out or how
do you build bridges or why
is everyone else playing the same game and i’m
on the sidelines

remember, ink-free tests don’t mean i’m smart

(Stage 4, #4)

What Was

early memories are clips of an old silent movie –
blurry and digitally colored, stored
in thousands of buried file cabinets
without labels or protection;
hunting through them is like peeling onions,
and sometimes the tail ends of the film twine
around each other until I’m no longer certain
which frames are memories
or photographs
or just stories.

Lessons

by the time we left I knew their house almost as well as mine
with its creaky banisters and worn carpet
and toys and people scattered like easter eggs.
I couldn’t help but wonder how Aunt never went insane
in that whirlpool of a house.

on the sunshine days, the empty-notebook days
I plunge right in and play –
I catch their between-moments
and it’s like we’re related or something,
but on headache-days, the drowning days,
it’s all I can do to find a quiet corner
to gasp for breath.

the drive there was always homework and a book
and a loud family,
but the drive home was when the sun
dragged in the branches and the sky
was spilled paint.

it held tear-tracks nobody saw
and I told myself it was just the music –
just hormones –
but I never found out for sure.

(Stage 3, #4)

I love your poetry! This is really good I think my favorite stanza is:
"the drive there was always homework and a book
and a loud family,
but the drive home was when the sun
dragged in the branches and the sky
was spilled paint."

@AliceAfternoon - I'm glad you enjoyed it!

Erased

words again –
cutting words
face burning
shrinking back against
the rock wall
ears ringing with words
almost almost innocent
shallow knife-strokes
not insults, not rumors
just disdain

my fault, my fault
you never were a friend
but an anglerfish –
i didn’t watch long enough
i’ll be more careful
next time

words fading
that’s the curse
staring at the scars
wondering what left the mark
and why they said it
and was i bullied?

(Stage 2, #5)

Summer Ides

it’s late and I’m still up
the day was a pancake breakfast and a parade,
snatching candy from the streets
(my stash is already hidden under my bed)
and belting out “America the Beautiful”
with Grandpa.

now the lawn chairs curve along the cul-de-sac
lights are on and doors are open
Mom will want a jacket –
the breeze turns the blazing heat into a memory
and brings cicada calls and summer-night smells

I throw my poppers and they crack feebly against the pavement
a second later, the first firework shakes the ground
and I dive into my chair to watch the show.

another summer in Utah,
another summer at home.

Twirling

dance for me
pencil to paper; thoughts, work,
done.

dance for me
okay – here
see, i’ve learned this

dance again
i’ll try.

dance.
but i’ve twirled until my feet are bleeding
and my head swims
i can’t stand straight and practicing
the songs i love is a dream.

dance dance dance –

fine. i’ll give you a dance.
i’ll give you my dance when it’s seven-thirty p.m.
and i can’t sit down.
pacing in circles, shaky hands,
shaky heart, choked throat –
that is my dance
when i don’t know how to do it all and i’m
only wasting time and i still think
it’s all my fault and i
can’t sit down
even to work.

the best dances i know are the ones
you never meant to teach me.


(Stage 3, #5)