by Leo Wurgaft
Of the barren
Of the frigid
Of the hazy
Of the wood
And of the fire,
Or of the lake
And of the briar?
From the ground?
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
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
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 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.
By Pearl Shread
I’m full of words and phrases, syllables and letters.
They tumble through me.
I’m full of comparison and characterization.
They stroll through me.
I’m full of conflicts and climax, themes and settings.
They cartwheel through me.
I’m full of irony and poetry, similes and synonyms.
They swim through me.
I’m full of metaphors and point of views.
They leap through me.
Open me up for a world of wonder.
Open me up for a world of joy.
Open me up for a world of adventure.
Open me up for a world of tragedy, dreams, drama and tears.
Open me up for a story.
Pearl Shread is in 6th grade and lives in Northampton, MA. She likes writing because it is a way to make fantasy real and anything you want can happen. “I like the workshop because it gives me a structured time to write and without it I wouldn’t just write by myself. I also like hearing the other writers’ stories.
By Jordy Perry-Greene
I will not tell you what was on my mind.
I mind you asking, so don’t.
Just mind your own business.
Just keep in mind that you shouldn’t mind me speaking my mind.
Would you mind that?
After all, I should speak my mind.
So, it came to mind that…
I was mindlessly wandering
And I changed my mind about a mindless task.
I put it out of my mind
And took a load off my mind.
I was losing my mind
And it was the last thing on my mind
That it was all in my mind.
It was on my mind, that mindless task.
And I should mind my mind
Since a mind is a terrible thing to waste.
It then suddenly sprung to mind
That a mind is a thought mine,
Not a land mine, heaven forbid,
Nor a gold mine,
But a thought mine.
It slipped my mind before.
By the way,
I have half a mind to give you a piece of my mind if I hadn’t found peace of mind.
I should really make up my mind.
Should I speak my mind,
Or should I keep thoughts in my mind?
I’ll put my mind to solving it.
Jordy Perry-Greene was born on March 19, 2001, but for some reason he is 36 years old. He likes games and language, and particularly language games. Sometimes Jordy writes in the third person.
By Nathan Baron Silvern
There once was a man from Peru
Who put all his kids in a zoo.
He said to the bear
now that they were there
that he could eat them whenever he choose.
By Nathan Baron Silvern, seventh grade
By Lark Wicinas
How can they stand such a strange time?
the trees I mean.
The time when everything is gray.
Only just a while ago the air was alight with red, orange, and gold leaves floating around,
But then the rakers came, busy as bees and took it all away.
And now you stand, just a skeleton painted on an evening sky
Waiting, for the first few white flakes to come, dancing
To rest upon your heavy branches.
Branches filled with memories, or sights.
Sights of what has passed by your magnificent roots
that stretch under the shadow of your proud figure.
You stand tall and mighty as the newly born wind rattles your dull twigs.
How can you stand the cold, tension, waiting, -for what?
How can you survive the grayness?
Lark Wicinas, written at age 12. Published in Silkworm 3
By Aliya Axelrad
Do you remember the wings you once had?
The feeling of laughing so hard that you cry?
Sometimes I cry so hard that I laugh
It’s funny how when I was 8 and a half I was wishing I was older
But now I long for those wings again, to smile more often than not
When I was younger, I was better at forgetting
Do you remember the first time you had deja-vu?
Sitting in the leaves, watching the clouds slip on their boots and shuffle across the sky
The sun on your cheeks and that playful breeze in your hair
I've been here before
I've felt this before
Now i get deja-vu when I cry, when I’m drowning in memories
My Ignorance was beautiful
My bubble was safe
But the warm glow of the sun burned me
Do you remember when your eyes were telescopes?
Observing things too close to see?
Sometimes I look at things the way I used to
I jump and I fly and I write and I draw with my favorite blue crayon
But I'm still without my wings
And I still don't know what I'm doing here
Do you remember waiting for your first kiss?
Imagining what it would be like?
But really it was disgusting
Do you remember that drunk perfection?
That naive happiness?
Do you remember when your shadow was your friend?
Do you remember falling asleep to wake up in the morning instead of falling asleep to forget?
Do you remember a little girl with big brown eyes and golden wings?
A little girl who loved her birthday and cloudy days?
A little girl who would be afraid if she knew they would lock her in a cage like a sad bird?
A little girl who over the years would soon see through your eyes..
And forget about the wings she once had
Aliya Axelrad won a REGIONAL GOLD KEY in the 2020-2021 Scholastic Art and Writing Awards for this poem.