Silence
when I need you most
while drenched petals fall
under feeble moonlight
from rose-shrubs uprooted,
tumbleweeds blown
by the howling wind —
Would I need the finger-
touch of nail-prints, my hand
upon your side to know
You are here
somewhere in this garden
as I tread upon the flooded grass,
pellet drumbeats
drown
the silence that taunts
when I need you most.
by D. G. Vachal © 2016
Photography credit: by gnuckx @ Flickr Commons
Ivy and honeysuckle climb
forbidden picket fences,
alabaster butterflies alight
upon the foxgloves,
lavender fields are fragrant
in the silver glow
of summer twilight —
I watch the seasons dance
upon your face,
feel the temperate breezes
heal
our winter-charred arms —
youth returns
if only for a fleeting moment
when amethyst and beryl,
topaz and peridot
explode
against the sapphire sky
of your smiling eyes —
I catch
diamonds and meteors
into the willow basket
of my daily bread.
D. G. Vachal © 2016
*** Photography Credit: Perseids Meteor by J.P. Danko
Melted snow and now
relentless the waterfalls
flood-level ponds
drown the fragrance
of lotus white flowers —
February, you were cruel
savage winds battered homesteads
of burning hearths,
defiant
I treasure the fire
of remembered
warm seasons —
Weeping through March
nighttimes,
dew-tears moisten earth’s
winter-hard soil, awaken
emerald and amethyst
in blades of grass
and crocus petals —
April hours come
with dove-feather showers,
lenient winds,
promise the arrival of warmer
seasons once again.
by D. G. Vachal © 2016
*** Photography by LordV@Flickr
My thoughts again… on the last day of December….
Last Days of December
Time to be tranquil now
no longer the consonant prattle of leaves
in tussle with vowels of the wind,
whatever must fall
has
fallen
to the brumal ground,
flower by flower,
seed by seed.
Colors linger in the sky,
of rose bouquets and tiger lilies,
and the poetry of April crouches
in fetal position
within the uterus of vaporous
snow clouds —
Time to be still.
by D. G. Vachal © 2012
*** Photography by Paolo De Faveri
Mottled colors flutter
like butterflies,
await
the pristine white
canopies —
Wind-parched leaves
mantle the oak-brown
soil with topaz and jasper
above the dormant seeds
of wilted wildflowers —
Hearken to horse-hoof
raindrops,
the muffled fracture
of petioles letting go
at the eleventh hour
when all the coins of time
are spent
and the egrets of winter
alight
upon the emerald cedar
branches.
D. G. Vachal © 2015
Photo credit: Igor Burdin
