by Leo Wurgaft
Of the barren Of the frigid Of the hazy Of transitions Of the wood And of the fire, Or of the lake And of the briar? Mist rising From the ground? Snow falling Without a sound? Is it soundless? Is it loud? Is it not the absence Of a crowd? Of the rowdy? Of the overflowing? Of too much, Just too much growing? Is it solidarity? A chain, or else a rope? Is it full of hopelessness? Is it inspiration of hope? Can’t we finally see each other Outlined by the snow? Even in the darkest nights Can’t we still find peace in the stars’ glow? Can’t the clearness In the air Let us breathe? Breaths, you know, are rare Does not the ice Give us somewhere to stand? Everything needs a requiem Even the leaves and the land Lest we cease to sing, Our hearts need kindling for their embers Thus we find it in the desperation, Clarity, and hope of December Leo Wurgaft, 13, is from Amherst, Massachusetts. He has enjoyed writing for the majority of his life, and has loved Woven Word and the Woven Word family for the past two years. by Leo Wurgaft
When I’m picking up a pencil I feel it in my fingers As I smell the brittle wood I feel its tip blend with my thoughts A graphite fingernail LIke a wizard takes his wand Like a knight draws her sword The words spoken by internal lips Leap out and enchant the page The scratch of my pointed pilgrim and pioneer Is filtered through my inner ears And the scratching turns to letters And the letters pour from my fingers Like the little creek you discovered in the woods When you were little Writing is making something out of nothing Ignoring physics And opinions The only reality is your mind’s eye And the glittering blood You’ve let stain the paper When I’m picking up a pencil I hear the voices of my creations I feel their pain And I lose myself In that reality This dream And the joy of who I am Dances on the lines. Leo Wurgaft, 13, is a rising eight grader from Amherst, MA. He has enjoyed writing for the majority of his life and has loved Woven Word and the Woven Word family for the past two years. By Leo Wurgaft
The room sank of smoked gum leaf. The heat and humidity was almost too much to bear. It was crowded, and hard to tell one person from another. Near the roof a cloud of smoke was forming and the floor was blanketed in mist. Fast music was playing. The lively, but somehow eerie sound of a trumpet, double-bass, and violin filled the air. And among it all, a cry could be heard. “My satchel! Where’s my satchel?” The countless people glanced around, nervously. Suddenly a figure hooded in light, but dirtied grey popped up in the middle of the crowd. It strode toward the exit, skillfully sweeping the crowd out of it’s way as if it were water. “Stop! Theif!” The figures pace quickened, nearly into a run. The room became filled with red, the sound of an alarm silencing the music. A rusty steel gate lowered slowly in front of the door. The figure leapt, like lightning, upon a the shoulder of a panicked man, who yelled in alarm above the siren. The figure sprang from shoulder to shoulder, leaping across the sea of people, and sending frightened yelps through the crowd like ripples. It arrived at the door in seconds, the gate halfway to the ground. Then the figure turned to face the crowd, and pulled off his hood, revealing a young man of about sixteen, with a joyful expression and hazel eyes containing a brilliant, mischievous spark. A faded scar was on his right cheek, and he had unkempt, wild brown hair. He smiled and waved. “See ya’ blokes on the other side!” He jeered. And with that, he slid through the open door just as the gates met the floor with a satisfying clang. By Leo Wurgaft
The window is opposite the curtain The shield is opposite the sword The period is opposite the exclamation point The star is opposite the cockroach The moon is opposite the color brown The boulder is opposite the water The river is opposite the ocean The glitter is opposite the shine The shimmer is opposite the wood The genie is opposite the hammer The poem is opposite the….nothing The spine is opposite the pole The heart is opposite the battery Art is opposite the world The rainbow is opposite the reason The chalk is opposite the teen The warmth is opposite the hunger The heat is opposite the content The loneliness is opposite submergence The rules are opposite love The tree is opposite the still The dragonfly is opposite the human The eye is opposite the soul The dirt is opposite the tomb The thrill is opposite utopia The open hand is opposite the clenched jaw Rot is the opposite of death But they all sit on the same round table, which is opposite the throne. Leo Wurgaft, is 12 years old and lives in Amherst, Massachusetts. He loves the freedom of writing, and the creativity and imagination and stories you can bring into the world with it. |