Biography of Vaun Moore
Vaun Moore is my nom de plume for me,22 year old girl living in New York City, trying to make her way in this world. I have never been in love, yet my poems are so deeply personal, that it often leaves one to wonder. I will say this however, I never write about myself, only about people I have met or observed from a far.
I am currently working on my second volume of poems, for personal pleasure, but I hope to build up the courage to seek publication. Any one with info on how to go about it please let me know. All poems are copyrighted.
Vaun Moore Poems
He said the air was better in Paris. In Paris we could breathe Like we never could Here in the little home I had built.
The Sleep Of Reason
It has been so long since I've watched you sleeping; Watched the blue night descend on your body like a thick blanket. Sometimes, your hair would cast itself like a net, Snaring your face in fragile, moth-like tendrils.
An Open Letter To_______
We count the seconds Where once the hours weren't enough Silence now forces us too speak Where once words were to much
I met you in a splendor of giggling Amid summer dust in New York City… Gulping merriment,
One day, there will be a woman besides you Who paints her lips a deeper shade of red In an attempt to hold onto you
Electra To Her Mother
I look at you and I see myself- Same eyes Same nose Same mouth
There are nights like these When sleep refuses to come And everything I touch reminds me of you A novel, the remote, the pillow
In The Doorway
I watch from the top of the stairs As his head disappears quickly between the heavy doors No doubt running swiftly (world class marathoner) Down the stairs, fleeing into her waiting arms
Le Jadinier (The Gardener)
Daintily you move alongs the garden path Stopping now and then only to smell the roses And the lilies And the magnolias
Untitled As Of Yet (Any Suggestions)
Dusk descends on the World And distance lies between us like the grave Cold, silent, unforgiving Where are you my Darling?
You leave slowly Like the breath of a dying woman Shuddering slightly as it passes between pearly white teeth
On quiet little cat feet You come crawling in the thick of the night Skillfully breaking down my every defense Until there is only me
He said the air was better in Paris.
In Paris we could breathe
Like we never could
Here in the little home I had built.
I left with him
For the better air
And wine and cheese and cafes and Paris