Category Archives: Food for Thought

One Letter…

One Letter...

…makes a difference.

The Cat in the Tree

(One from a while back on YWP)

The businessman walked by the cat in the tree
It looked to be soft and cute
The poor thing meowed pitifully
But he didn’t want to ruin his suit.

The firemen passed the cat in the tree
The fire truck seemed to sail
Towards a fire, not the kitty
So it joined in the siren’s wail.

Then a mother of five saw the cat in the tree
The kids took their chance to run
So she had to take off quickly
To ruin their mischievous fun.

Next a teenager passed the cat in the tree
And earplugs were stuffed in her ear
With the volume turned up so loudly
The mewing she could not hear.

Old Harold shuffled past the cat in the tree
And although he was very kind
It was hard to hear and harder to see
So to the cat his eyes were blind.

A baby with dad saw the cat in the tree
But being unable to talk
He could only gaze wonderingly
And past the tree they did walk.

Sad and trembling was the cat in the tree
It had lost all of its hope
Until two kids skipped happily
Up the trail’s long slope.

The boy and the girl heard the cat in the tree
Before it was actually seen
They carried the cat out cautiously
And placed it on grass that was green.

Even though a person can seem quite small
Or is only the age of three
That person can really become quite tall
If they save the cat in the tree.

by Paige H.

The Prince of Night and Woodland Air

The Prince of Night
and Woodland Air
with heart so heavy
yet face so fair,
once came to me
when I was young,
just after set
of twilight sun.
He sang to me
the sweetest songs
of birds and stars
and goings-ons
in the wood
so far below,
where only fools
dared e’er to go.
He bid me come,
his smile so bright
it shamed the moon,
it felt so right.
And from my window
I was led
where earth meets sky.
And on a bed
of silver grass
laid we there,
in the night
and woodland air.
“This is my home,”
He said to me.
“Can’t you feel
in every tree
the freedom of
this unknown place,
the majesty
of untouched grace?”
I smiled at him,
all rosy cheeked,
and watched a fawn,
so quiet and meek,
come bounding by.
It made me smile.
“This all will die
in little while.”
I turned to him,
confused and scared,
and to my listening
ears he bared
the secret worries
he had grown
as he watched
from celestial throne.
“The earth does cry,”
He said to me.
“It’s in the quakes,
the air we breathe.
From water rushing
in from sea,
to every stump
and fallen tree.
This world we have
is not our own.”
And with that,
he took me home.
He led me to
my own soft bed,
then kissed the top
of my bowed head
and wiped the tears
that stung my eyes.
“My dear, nothing
may have to die.
Tell your friends
the things you know.
Share with them
what you’ve been shown.
With all your help,
perhaps someday
I’ll come again.
To you, I say,
the future is
within your hands.
Take this news
to distant lands.
Only you
can save my home.
Remember,
you are not alone.”
He disappeared
and left me there
with tear-stained eyes
and heart of care.
So went the night
he met me there,
the Prince of Night
and Woodland Air.

by cmandagrace

http://youngwritersproject.org/node/75735

What if…

What if...

everyone just learned the correct way to speak?

He’s a Complicated Man

“The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them — words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you’ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.”

-Stephen King

Mind: Blown

I love Shel Silverstein. Always have.

I have also loved the song “Boy Named Sue” for about as long.

It wasn’t until today that I knew that Shel Siverstein wrote “Boy Named Sue.”

My mind is so blown right now it’s surreal.

Reassigning Identity

(Meta-writing from the YWP. Do you agree with the sentiment?)

by IrisDoll

There’s a reason I write, it isn’t amazing, or even original. I write because I can’t do anything else.

I write because in putting my pen to the paper, I can breathe. When I put my pen to the paper, my emotions can become words. Thoughts and feelings, are stenciled into the blue, college ruled lines; the incoherent, jungle gym brain is sorted into categories made of numbers and letters.

The fictions that live on my paper and in my mind are all real. Instead of first person, singular pronouns are the third person, singular pronouns. The specific, singular “you”, becomes a general, plural  “you”.

I remove myself from the story, yet I’m there in each line. I am the girl ripping open her toes in her black leather dance shoes, while she’s told to be pretty, and to make it look easy.

I’m the girl struggling to hide her sobs behind the shield of her Rapunzel blond hair. I’m that girl, who prefers full words to the abbreviated big brother forms.

Then there is you (and you know, that I’m talking to you). You creep in to every rant, each line break, and all the commas. You wrap yourself into my similes and metaphors. You hide behind the theme. But you, you aren’t just you, you are many, you are vous, not tu.

The fiction I write is pure and untainted. All “I”s are meant with passion; hatred and love, meant in that moment. “You”s have no value assigned. They are encrypted, safe behind my lock and key.

I write, because in writing I’m able to stay sane. I can pour my emotions out on to the page, instead of down into the bottle inside of me.

I write because in writing, I find what I feel.

I write because I want the ink and graphite stain on my smallest finger.

I write, because I want to write.

http://youngwritersproject.org/node/61189

As-pun-rations…

One day, I will work at McDonald’s, and every time I hand a person their food I will say, “Sorry for the weight.”

And then I will be smug.

Friends

I was recently trying to decide who my true friends are and who are merely people I enjoy spending time with. I came up with this litmus test, so to speak.

If all of your deepest, innermost thoughts were broadcast to all of your friends for one day, who would still be your friend the next day? That is a true friend.