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By Morgan Brown-McNeil
Racing water, Trains on tracks, Moving through dirt, Rain making mud. We once walked freely, But now it's almost as if someone's put a damper on the Earth. Oxygen seems scarce. Doors slam, Shutters close over Windows, Hearts pound, Breathe obscured, Buds ignored. Restaurants and other humanly objects criticized for trying to survive. We line up six feet apart, Afraid of a bug. We wonder what cleaner the gas station uses a few miles down 91. We search for the good in life on a screen, Pixels guiding us through time. Our dreams are filled with little Boxes, All separately titled, Green outlines. Faces unseen, Covered in paper. Smoke rising from lips scares us all more than sharks, Seeing how far visible air from lips goes. We run from our shadows, Hoping they stay six feet away. We gasp at the movies that have taken over our reality. Wondering how so many people could be so stupid as to go without masks, All an elbows length from one another. Morgan Brown-McNeil has gone to Woven Word for three years. She's passionate about climate justice and loves spending time, barefoot, in nature. She loves to read and play music and she is very interested in outer space. By Laszlo Hermann-Gwilliam
Delicious, salty, creamy, orange and white, that's what I am. Saltines and me. Jam and bread under me. Me melted into beans. Me under slices of tomato on bread. Those are my formats. I'm... CABOT CHEDDAR CHEESE !!!!!!!!! Laszlo Hermann-Gwilliam is 7 years old. He was born at 7 in the morning in the shadow of Mt. Rainier. When he was young, he enjoyed playing and having his parents read to him. Now, he enjoys pancakes, reading long books to himself, and imagining all sorts of worlds with his younger brother. By Laszlo Hermann-Gwilliam
Slowly he walked forward, then he bowed a few feet away from me. I felt a burst of pride. I bowed, then he came close and I felt his warm palm as he patted my beak. Then he was hoisted up to my back, I began to flap my wings and galloping, soon we were in the air. by Harper Ray Prudence Coady
The wind roaring like a tiger. Rain falling making watery diamonds on the green grass growing. And the sun is a giant lemon in the sky. Snow melting, flowers coming colors of yellow and purple bursts of color! Ode to Spring Harper Coady is nine years old and lives in Florence MA with her mother, father and little brother. Harper goes to Leeds Elementary School and is in third grade. Harper loves getting a clear picture of stories she imagines when she writes them down. By Bryan Perley
It is a Friday afternoon in the month of May and I pass through the doorway of the old farm house on the Food Bank Farm where my writers’ workshop meets. I am late, having just gotten out of a short cross country practice, but I am immediately received with a warm welcome from all those present in the kitchen. Danny, a complex and thoughtful poet, slaps his freckled hand on my shoulder and then proceeds to talk to me about the Eagle Scout process, as we are also both members of the same troop. I also manage to greet Joe, a long time member of the group and a talented debater for his school’s mock trial team. I sit down next to Lou, who often cannot make the workshop because of his sports practices, and joke about how short my cross country practices are compared to his. Margot plays with the household cat on the window seat, while Benny, the host of the workshop and son of our instructor, enters. I settle in for what is always one of my favorite parts of the week. We come from different places, schools and backgrounds. We are actors, mathematicians, runners, debaters, computer whizzes, hockey and frisbee players, Jews, Christians, atheists, vegetarians, nature lovers, boy scouts, fencers and duct tape enthusiasts. However, there is one constant across our diverse lives, and that is a love of writing. This shared passion for writing is at the core of what has kept our eclectic group of aspiring poets, essayists, novelists and authors together, somehow carving out time from our hectic schedules to keep coming to the farmhouse for regular meetings for almost ten years now. And while writing remains central, our workshop experience has evolved over time into something that has come to mean so much more. We gather in a circle as the workshop begins. We are given an abundance of magazine cut outs from Ms. Bowmaster, the instructor of our group, and we write in whatever manner we wish in relation to the picture that we choose. Danny’s story is deep and moving; his older brother William executes a philosophical poem about his wilderness picture. Lou prepares a hilarious piece, while his classmate, Cory, concocts a science fiction short story. I, like others in the group, find a way to intertwine the concepts and emotions of my photograph into the novel I am writing. One by one we share what we have written with the rest of the circle and the others offer constructive criticism and encouragement. Every time we share, we learn from one another and we often try different methods and styles to advance ourselves as writers. The group is supportive, encouraging each of us to take risks and “put ourselves out there” with no fear of falling flat, which of course we sometimes do. That we voluntarily spend Friday afternoons, at the end of a very demanding school week, coming to this old farm house to work on our writing is sometimes a bit puzzling even to us. However, we all agree that in the midst of all of the fun and the crazy exercises we have actually learned as much here -- not only about creative writing but also about public speaking, self-confidence, expression, listening and tolerance -- as we have in any class that any of us has ever taken. ... The workshop is over for another week. The photographs are put away and our latest literary creations are stuffed into backpacks or pockets. Some have gone home, some of us linger and talk. As it often does these days, the conversation turns to college plans. Amid the mundane recitations of interview schedules, application deadlines and the relative merits of early decision, we share our hopes and fears and try to put into words the sense of excitement and anticipation, and the nervousness and anxiety, over what lies ahead. Benny speaks of wanting to find a college that will prepare him well for law school, while Lou emphasizes his desire keep up with his sports. Cory mentions his search for the right university where he can hone his computer science skills. I listen to all of this and reflect on my time with this group of friends and kindred spirits, and my larger experiences at the Food Bank Farm. I realize that this community which has come to be such an important part of who I am is really a microcosm of all that I hope to find in the “right college.” I imagine an environment full of interesting, bright and talented people, one that nurtures creative thought, encourages and values diversity of opinion, and fosters a true sense of charitable purpose and service to the larger community. While I am not so naïve as to fail to realize that this a fairly idealistic vision of what college life may be, and one that no school can realistically be expected to attain in full, my experience with the Food Bank Farm and writers’ workshop communities has shown me that such environments do exist and that I can thrive in them and contribute greatly to them. I can only hope I am fortunate enough to find a similar environment in which to spend the next chapter of my life. by Quinn Allen-Brezsnyak
The mountain high, the ocean low the peak above, the sea below but nature keeps the balance though from birds to worm, from fish to fox from great tall oaks, to little rocks the dull gray one, the gem so rare that when you see, you always stare. Life is all around us, though. found in the fire, and in the snow. Life is all around us, see? We stand as one in harmony. Quinn Allen-Brezsnyak is 10 years old, and lives in Northampton, Mass. He goes to Jackson Street School and loves writing. He especially loves poetry, because he loves how the lines fit smoothly together and the puzzle of finding different rhymes to match. By Morgan Brown McNeil
Lost dreams, we all reach for them in the dark and emptiness of blank space. The orchestras of all our forgotten forgotten thoughts must resonate into oblivion on the dark side of the moon. The false pretense into which insipid trouts must wander. Memories of things you don’t remember, Ideas strung together on a thin tight rope, 100 feet in the air, only to fall into the pit of unremembered memories, scars of hope, blood sucked from the open wound, Pounding on the door to freedom till blood drips from sore knuckles when no one has a key. We all reach for them, Lost dreams. Morgan Brown McNeil is 13 years old. She has been writing in Woven Word Writers Workshop for three years. She is a level seven gymnast, a homeschooler, and she loves climbing trees. By Sarim Chaudry
Hey you in the human flesh, yeah i am talking to you. You have caused us so much trouble around this part of the year. You take us out of our homes. Then you cut our heads open and scrape out all of our guts, then you carve our faces into something you like better and set out the corpses and light them on fire. We have been decimated every single October, It's always October, ALWAYS. However, this time I am here to make a change. You might be asking how I will pull it off. True, there have been failures, but I have been given some weird green water, and now I am sentient! I waited for night though because it makes everything spooky. I can see you shaking in your boots already knowing that it's nighttime. Anyway, It’s time for the pumpkin to take over! I will start with that ghastly kid I have never met - Steve. “Why do you guys always play Fortnite, Minecraft’s better in every way.” He is always saying that, and like obviously Fortnight’s better. I mean they steal dances from the internet, what does Minecraft have on that? He's always busy eating hotdogs so I jump kicked him and he choked on his hotdog. See the thing is if he was eating dirt, that would not have affected him. He would be long gone before I ever hated him. He's not dead. He just is not moving, nor is his heart, and he's not breathing, but he'll be fine, don't worry about it. While walking down the street looking for my next target I noticed Joe. He loved killing the chickens, and so I would love to help those chickens. But the thing is, they are kind of weird, and I hate them for no reason. However I spent too long waiting for night time, my powers ran out. That was the end of my revolution. Sarim Chaudhry is twelve years old and goes to Hopkins Academy in Hadley, MA. One thing he loves about writing is that he can tell a group of people jokes and make them laugh. He loves Woven Word because he’s free to write these things instead of writing to a topic that a teacher gives him. By Esme De Vore
Cute, adorable, fun! Whenever Juliana is around! We play, ride bikes, and have the best of times! Wake up Esme! It's breakfast time! Oh how I love Juliana! 5 years old. Playing dolls, playing with blocks, and imagination. The End. By Esme De Vore
Beautiful, bright, and my favorite color! And also... Weird, wacky, and wonderful! The color of worms in the ground! And the color that I am writing in! And the slime that I make too! Oh how I love PINK!!!!!!!!!! The End. Esme DeVore is 7 years old and lives in Amherst, MA. She attends Wildwood Elementary. She loves writing and Woven Word because you get to use your imagination and write about anything you can think up. |