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Best Poems Written by Dana Young

Below are the all-time best Dana Young poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Dana Young Poem

Feeding the Yellow Birds

He came each day, when the sun showed noon,
Two heels in a plastic bag-
Thermos of hot tea
To have lunch and 
Read passages to the yellow birds-
Usually an hour, til they took flight.

But today the bench is unoccupied-
Empty, except for a plate of hardened ice,
Stuck smooth and tight on the iron,
and frozen sheets on the lath.

Yesterday his footprints showed-
They were longer than most, 
From shuffling feet and a small round circle
At the side, from the walking stick...
But now they are gone-
Covered by snow on the path.

The ducks look, and for awhile they wait,
Funny squawks and squeaks in their throats,
Heads bobbing with each step of feet,
Perhaps the only ones to notice the empty bench.

Strange, they have not flown south yet,
As their pond is nothing but a white icedrome.
Perhaps they were waiting for their
Friend to go first, and now that
he has gone, they will soon take flight.

He walks spry in a gentler land,
Beard no longer gray,
Sitting warm- no aches or pains,
Face with no creased lines...
Feeding the yellow birds 
on a silver pond each day at noon.

Details | Dana Young Poem

Dies Irae-It Has To Be

Slack sails await winds.
At first nothing...stillness, then a wisp.
Awakening becomes triumphant,
And he dares to have hope.
Sails hoisted high, hands shield the sun,
Squinting as the rays are interrupted by
Swollen clouds, yet puffs of nothing.
Waiting for snow in the summer,
A blossom in the winter.
Yet nothing exists but hope- dared hope.
Hope left to Sea Gods, hammering thunder into bolts.
It arises. Dragon's head drawn to earth.
But Elpis is silent, no sign of mirth on her face.
Then a trace of smile...Mona's smile.
A quickening of pulse. A slight glance.
A sense of thrill. Wet hands. Dry mouth.
Awaiting with bowed head and clenched fists,
But still no answer. Last chance. Dies Irae...it has to be.
Desperation and despair. He hears nothing.
A feeble dance with destiny, a waltz with faith.
Yet there is that. There is always that...Hope.

Details | Dana Young Poem

The Painted Desert

Mornings fade into evenings, evenings slip into nights.
Day colors spill from their pails, then seep into
valleys, wind caves and shale.

The Painted Desert bleeds into a Stygian hue
as the heat reaches up to embrace the moon
and soon, nocturnal eyes will glow starry bright.

She is a stern and hardened matron, giving homes to
venomous lodgers, leathered skins and prickly spikes,
nurturing the Eagleclaws and Buckhorn Cholla,

seldom shedding tears, yet seducing hikers with
her raw beauty and enticing guile, beckoning
well-worn travelers, luring them in with her temptress smile, 

wagging a crooked finger while breathing sweet, hot breath.
Her brilliance inspires painters, giving passion to photographers,
scribes, and past homes with heirlooms to Navajo tribes.

Though the sky grows dark with oranges and pinks slipping away,
they are resurrected at dawn, when cactus wrens scold
rattlers coiled by rocks, commanding them to dens.

The Painted Lady is harsh, watching with lavender eyes,
scarlet lips, and a throat of dust- thirsting for a drink.
She wears skin of leather, powdered with a coat the color or rust.

But she does no intimidate me with her sharp nails, hot breath,
and painted face- for she once was my neighbor.
And though years pass by, her radiant beauty never pales.

My great grandfather, "Sani" is buried somewhere deep
in her bosom. I placed a stone and etched his name above
the place where he now sleeps in this land.

The epitaph is covered by a tawny shroud
blown in from the Niyol- so I brush away the
offending residues with one swift, sweep of my hand.

Details | Dana Young Poem

Healing Stones

The healing stones rest.
Fondled and smoothed by
Fingers as gently as Hail Mary beads,
Of those seeking grace- Questing new life,
Stilled by hands uncertain of
Direction or destiny, begging to rise
Like the Phoenix from fiery ashes.

The colors of agates, crystals,
And rose quartz, erased and tossed
Into brackish waters, lashing at the
Seaside, salty on tongues which
Speak to mythical Gods, crouching and
Praying on knees with
Bowed heads, requesting miracles...
Sometimes answered- Sometimes not.

Uncertainty soaked in blood and stains of
Grassy patches drift outward,
Sealed in jars, wedged in ghost ship gallows,
To be tasted by sea nymphs, mermaids, and
Caught by fishermen, casting reels off wooden bridges.
When opened- A breath, a whisper, a sigh escapes
And drifts along corals, swallowed up then spit back.

The Queen of Hearts, the dreamers, 
All with black diamond crowns,
Scribbling journal entries will await with nets on
Coasts of oceans and impatient streams.

Details | Dana Young Poem

The One In the Lavender Dress

She looked peaceful in her lavender dress-
as I suppose she was. Eyes closed as if lost
in childhood dreams, small hands folded across her chest.
Her glasses resting beside her auburn strands,
lips pleading for color, her face dove white and soft.

Her funeral was on a Friday. April was gently sliding into place,
crowding out winter's breath, the grass no longer
bearded with frost. I sat in a pew staring down at my
black patent leathers willing tears not to fall,
squelching the undertows of pride as I was angry at
everyone and everything...most of all death.

Her hands were an older version of mine, though more worn,
lined with age and weather- nails painted- polish half-chipped
usually the color of crimson, as red as the heat from a
summer sun, occasionally Passion Merlot, but always 
matching her lips.

Strange... the things I recall that day.
Mourners clotted into seats, crowded together like a
misfitted jigsaw- Fanning away the heat with hymnals.

It was unseasonable warm for spring, with bursts of new life
making the gnawing pain in my heart even worse.
Strange...the vases of flowers queued on shelves at the altar,
their blooms flashing colors of a Hawaiian sunset
showing no regard, no remorse, no regret,
teasing me with their jaunty heads wagging slightly
from a fan's swirling breeze.

Strange...the sunlight spangling a polished beige floor with
rainbows from stained glass panes, paying no homage to
such a grave occasion.
I thought it more fitting to see a blanket of clouds
bringing forth torrents of cold, grey rain.

The air was ripe with grief that day.
Aunt Pearl's perfume tormented my nose,
having doused enough on for a Sheik's harem.
It had the pungent odor of a fading rose, 
or a bit like Uncle Earl Jim's cologne.
My face took refuge in the sleeve of my blouse.

Oh how I longed to breathe my mother's scent once more,
that of lemon polish and a faint minty aroma of menthol
from her Virgina Slims.

Suddenly, the organ resounded mighty notes,
and the preacher's voice boomed glorious words of praise,
remanding my mother's life, lamenting as in sackcloth and ashes.
There were nodding heads, pretending to know,
holding prayer beads in white gloved hands.

Strange...how could they know of her life and her love?
How would they know of her songs, or her hands, like mine-
or the color of her nails always matching her lips,
or her minty lemon scent?
Nobody could know except me...
and the one in the lavender dress.

Details | Dana Young Poem

The Picture Frame

It stood alone upon the shelf
above the hearth, warmed by flame.
I'd gazed too many times to count
at those two inside the picture frame

Cut square from weathered wood of barn,
with rifts from age and gathered dust
that 1940's bride and groom
did send my mind to wanderlust.

She in white gossamer gown
with a bashful smile upon her face,
and he so proud in uniform
that flash in time could not erase.

Did they lie in stained-glass fields
stitched with verdant clover sweet?
Did they leave impressions there
their outlined forms pressed so deep?

Did they gaze up at crisp, bright stars,
sipping on strawberry wine-
on a swath of road at the fringe of town
with fingers laced, so firm entwined?

Was it a glimpse, or flourished span?
Did they meet by chartered fate?
Was that rose pinned in her hair
plucked outside his garden gate?

Did they attend gay affairs, and
stroll down a secret clandestine path?
Did they waltz to special songs,
listened to on photograph?

As I study now, deep in thought
these questions do not worry me,
for without those tow upon the shelf
my existence would never be.

Details | Dana Young Poem

When the Wildfire Burned

The ground was crow-black
as the ashes took wing in the breeze,
flowing in hot breath across a 
grief stricken earth.
Charred trees, now barren of leaves,
stood leaning...drunk, like numb sticks,
ready to snap with the next lash
of wind, whipping the flames into a
brazened brawl. Oh, but no shame there
as the earth lay bare for all to see,
raped by a blaze, begging tears
of mercy to fall, to slake the fevered thirst.
The air was thick with smoke
as all life sniffed danger, seeking
refuge- around a bend, beside a pond,
an edge, a corner- to somewhere beyond
the clash of ocean tides dipped in
wet mist...but the torch spread wider.
"Not here!" it cried to the coyote,
"Not here!" it screeched to the deer.
"Fly higher meadowlark!" (blinding her flight.)
"No, No, not here!"
Tumbleweeds scurried over seared land,
dying in barbed wire, as the flames 
licked higher, stinging wheat's ear.
People bowed heads in prayer, teetering between
hope and fear- Then awakened to a
blanket of white, stitched by angels and
laid down by God, sometime in the night.

Details | Dana Young Poem

Mountain Home At Dusk

He knew a world of lesser life,
"miles from here and everywhere," he'd often quip.
He sat in a swing hung from chains, soaking up nature
after the fence mending and baling of hay was done.
Time to untangle the worries, unburden the aches and
pains of the day- send them on down the creek.

He would scrape dirt from his boots, then whittle on a stick,
drawing in the thick evening air- overalls and shirtless.
And I on the porchstep, long rid of paint...barefoot,
watching the sun hemorrhage through the old oak leaves.

Nightfall would slowly sponge up the pale, honey-hued sky
while wildflowers would nod off in the cool autumn breeze.
He, sipping bourbon from a cup, would become the vainglory of tales,
and I with lemonade- the idolizer- paid homage with keen ears
while the choirs of bullfrogs lauded their serenade.

Then God would snap on His heavenly lights,
making the fireflies vie for attention as his stories overflowed
late into the night- each page of the scrapbook kept
inside his head, was dusted and narrated with pride.
And I listened with a reverent air.

The next morning I would find myself tucked into an old
feathered bed...never remembering how I got there.

Details | Dana Young Poem

Old Bones Lying In Yellow Dust

I awaken with languid eyes gazing at the passing dawn.
Strange light rays hover over ancient graves
Jestering- tormenting souls
Where spindled wildweeds grow
And sway over a dull domain, and
Under clouds with nimble fingers accusing...
pointing down. They pause to sit-
Brittled, splintered, to take a breath
Waiting to sweep unbright fields
Of rye and corn.

Now standing, they float away
With the rays sighing in blustery winds,
Gusting like torrents from the north
Spilling thorns and stems
Around the livestock- propped and tall
Like sentries who do not know nor care.
Horns lowered to eat what's left
Grazing, tails swishing, numb to silverdrops
And firebolts, blazing in the background.

The old woman turns in her tomb,
Facing downward- blind to the squalor above.
A twitch of finger
A thumb
A toe
Stretching, as the worms rest in soft shells
Inside sallowed orbs. Then in a flick- a flash-
Tumbleweeds hurry to leas now stitched
In rusted cathedrals, wrestling with directions-
Scurrying to settle in barbed wire, leaving
Old bones in yellow dust.

Details | Dana Young Poem

Fanciful Flight of Frilled Imagination

Sure... an old man in ballet slippers
can make you smile,
but soon, he too must
don overalls and mud boots.
Tabby cats turning cartwheels
and curly-haired dogs
in dotted clown suits
can take your mind to
funny places for awhile,
but eventually the crocodile circuses
and that tattooed frog
plowing apricot fields
must disappear, as forbidden
fruits cannot be glued
back onto trees.
So dream while you can,
go to whimsical isles,
drink coconut wine
and glide over the seas,
tango with lovers,
sing Sinatra songs,
cry with a friend and
jump in mud puddles-
forgive yourself and flout the wind
then begin the new day Hercules strong.