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By Summit Perhaps we should be more descriptive of our failures. feel the texture like our own flesh because it is Our Own Flesh You would never be wrong if you told me that we all were negligent. but I think that we would argue with you to save our reputation Thinking that maybe if we don’t admit it it isn’t true I am told that confessing equals self betterment. and some better understanding of ourselves and it turns so quickly into pity and nourishment of our bodies waiting to be praised for something nobody can quite explain. I’m wondering if that means our actions are immoral. Wondering if it’s like a parent hiding anything that would shatter the false sense of security from a wide eyed child just trying to understand. We are the wide eyed children and they are hiding everything black and blue. Hiding crimes Hiding ourselves. And I've been meaning to ask someone who isn’t brainwashed what’s happening. Maybe I can watch you watch the world and come up with a filtered analysis of everything wrong with us if you tell me how So hurry up and explain what's happening and how to analyze what’s wrong with us. Summit is 13 years old and is homeschooled. She has been in Woven Word for 5 years and has thoroughly enjoyed every second of it. She loves writing in a group of dedicated, appreciative writers and hopes to continue writing in Woven Word for the foreseeable future! In addition to writing, she loves LD debating, dancing, and playing violin. *&*** Berkshire East and Alternative to Girl DInner By Elo Schwabe I remember the aggressive smell of bbq engulfing me as i stepped over piles of wet coats, and people taking off their boots and waving their socks in the air, the metallic smell of hand warmers i push up against my clammy cold face I remember the feeling of my feet falling off in my boots while I hobbled around the dinning hall and the wet of snow melting off my hood and down my back, the stinging feeling of hot water out of a rusty faucet splashing against my hands I remember the taste of mac and cheese melting the paper cup i held it in and stale, fake, Trader Joe's Takis barley crunching against my teeth the sizzling taste of orange crush as i watched bits of pork fall out of a pulled pork sandwich I remember hearing the swoosh of uncomfortable fabric falling to the ground and thumping feet against the wooden paneled floor, the obnoxious sound of insistent chatter overflowing the room I remember seeing toddlers on leashes being tugged around wood beams and kids outside the big glass windows splatting snowballs against the panes, the shady old guys smoking in the corner next to the trash can overflowing with energy bar wrappers The Berkshire East dining hall never disappoints. Elo Schwabe is a 7th grader at Amherst Regional Middle School. She has been attending Woven Word for two years, and likes spending time with other young people who share her love of writing. Elo especially enjoys weaving humor into her writing. Ode To Antiquity By Sarah Martini Ode to the stories of olden to the green bronze and the golden to Odysseus and the Trojan and to every sad votive offered up to deathless time ruler of our realm, sublime shaker of this paradigm greatest conqueror of them all countless cities, empires fall civilizations dawn their pall and though Constantinople tried to stall, it was memory by ‘53 and yet the final curtain call, could not erase its history Emperor Trajan’s spiraled frieze may yet cause the heart to seize some marble weathered, and some stayed to craft the Athens colonnade time-worn treasures have decayed but where foundations have been laid we will build on up forever and the past will last and last that which time shall not dissever. Sarah Martini is 16 years old and lives in Amherst. She goes to the Williston Northampton School and her favorite sport is cross country. She loves Woven Word Summers on the Houseboat, and writing poetry. Everything eats and is eaten, time is fed. - Adrianne Lenker
There’s a mug of peach tea on the kitchen counter. I made it for you in the boiling and muggy, late august summer heat. You left it there, sitting by the salt shaker and the olive oil decanter with a backdrop of chipping cobalt paint. It’s cold now but neither of us mind. It’s the thought that counts anyway, you say to me. The thought of clinging to the lingering, steeping dregs of summer heat. The thought of drying lavender above the sink. The thought of Mary in her little yellow sundress out on the dock in the sunset. The thought of standing on the dyke watching geese fly home overhead through an immense sky. The wilting flowers in the jadeite vase on the windowsill. The vinyl collection passed down from your mother. The teaspoon in the honey jar. The rusty coffee pot on the stove top. The ant infestation. The quart of blueberries we got at the farmers market last Tuesday. Now mushy and past. The lazy dog sleeping in a puddle of sunshine on the hardwood floors. The time bomb ticking down the days until school starts. We sit on the deck and we philosophize over our untouched mugs until it gets dark and the bugs come out and we have to go inside. We lie in the grass side by side and we try to see our father’s faces in the cloud formations. Don’t let go, You say to me, squeezing my hand. I couldn’t if I tried. We hum our little summer songs, we dream our little summer dreams, we delude ourselves into thinking this will last forever. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was holding the hand of the earth,my fingers intertwined with the grass blades and the ant hills and the heat. Ollie Perrault (she/her) is a 16 year old from Easthampton who has been attending writers workshop since before she can remember. She enjoys reading, writing, and running around barefoot on her family's farm. Ollie is a youth climate activist and a passionate advocate for reproductive justice. She has been a leading member of the Mass Audubon's Climate Leadership Program since she was 11 and is now the founder and director of Youth Climate Action Now which is a Western MA based environmental justice organization. Comments are closed.
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