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Vaviana Young Poem
Jet-black hair faded to gray;
tall, slender figure
arched with age—
sagging like the skin around your eyes
so much like mine.
Your loud voice has quieted
and become gentle as the years have passed.
Your once harsh hands now seek to guide me
on paths I had to discover without you.
Father,
I wonder—
while you have been present
but still so far away—
just how much time have we lost?
Copyright © Vaviana Young | Year Posted 2025
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Vaviana Young Poem
Say something;
your silence scars my skin,
shatters my soul,
strains my skull,
stretches out my suffering and
snowballs my syndrome.
Out loud;
your opinion is not obvious,
openness not optional,
obligation not obsolete,
only your opposition to the occasion is
orchestrating this onslaught.
Speak;
I scream and shout,
shriek and screech,
sob and solicit,
still, you stay shut-off and silent and
strike me speechless, too.
Copyright © Vaviana Young | Year Posted 2025
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Vaviana Young Poem
It was raining when I met you,
and sunny when you left;
the thunder told me your name,
and the sun's rays help me forget.
Copyright © Vaviana Young | Year Posted 2025
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Vaviana Young Poem
Feet glued to your welcome mat,
our fingers meshed like Velcro
and pieces of our shattered hearts
haphazardly taped together;
my tears and your fidgeting
weaken the adhesive,
yet, we do not—
can not—
move.
Copyright © Vaviana Young | Year Posted 2025
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Vaviana Young Poem
after Because I could not stop for Death, by Emily Dickinson
Because I would not stop for Death,
he kindly stopped for me.
A wilted bouquet in one hand—
a reminder of life's mortality.
We began to walk—he knew no haste—
side by side, as we always were.
In silence, no sympathies were spoken,
as he knew I often preferred.
We passed the house where I once strove
to play and know no sorrow.
We passed a creek whisking ashes downstream—
something I was hesitant to let it borrow.
Or, rather, it passed us—
the mist in the air quivering with a dog's final breath—
for only I began to falter
on our beaten and lonely path.
We paused before some foothills that seemed
serene, yet all too demanding.
The soon-to-be graves were scarcely visible here—
urns in my arms notwithstanding.
Since then, it has been decades, and yet
it still feels shorter than the day
Death first took my warm hand in his own
and his comforting coldness became mine for eternity.
Copyright © Vaviana Young | Year Posted 2025
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Vaviana Young Poem
Black lashes
blown off of a fingerpad that throbs
in tandem with an overharvested eyelid
flit to the floor—
wasted wishes
manufacted in mockery of dandelion's dance.
Keratin cracks
beneath the pressure of enamel,
exposing weak, watery skin
on trembling fingertips—
nervous nibbles
evolved into voracious, cannibalistic cravings.
Though hope
fractures under the weight of repugnant gazes
and my unsightly nubs grasp blindly for pigments to suppress
these habitual shames—
flesh forgives
more than the self, and, like a forest after a fire, it grows back.
It always grows back.
Copyright © Vaviana Young | Year Posted 2025
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Vaviana Young Poem
Like old paint,
the discarded heart chips away
where it lay
in a hollow chest
not unlike my own breast.
In its prime,
untainted by sin
and made of sheepskin,
its candy apple hue
captivated everyone—especially the likes of you.
However, who now
could admire a color
so mottled by misuse and so drastically duller?
Verily, no unclouded eye could find merit
in such a sorry trinket.
Copyright © Vaviana Young | Year Posted 2025
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Vaviana Young Poem
Reminiscent of a doe
with a hue as rich as earth,
your gaze takes me home
to a cedar-filled hearth.
Welcoming like hot chocolate
and as vibrant as autumn's leaves,
your stare carries the life
that Mother Nature herself weaves.
Neutral, yet expressive—
as versatile as leather, but still so alive—
your eyes are the gemstones
favored by the sun and I alike.
Copyright © Vaviana Young | Year Posted 2025
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