Monthly Archives: November 2013

“November the Penultimate”

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November the Penultimate

Never was a month so motley in its days:
November, penultimate month
of a year that frames the seasons,
when the leaves in early days
turn to brightest garnet,
a blazing topaz,
illuminated gold —

The latter days come
with the fire of the winds,
and the burning leaves take the plunge
from infernal towers of the branches
to the burial grounds of a gun-
metal, brumal earth —

November, November,
calves ache from the marathon,
hearts pound the door
to another December

When holly berries huddle upon the petals
of the soft-spoken snow,
and the fallen leaves breathe again
at the sound of the carols of the children,
the children rejoicing.

D. G. Vachal © 2013

Photography Credit: November’s Decline by Bucaneve

“The Riches of the Poor”

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woman with parasol
The Riches of the Poor

In the midst of their calamity, they managed to smile. There was an unexplainable calm and peace upon their faces as they fell patiently in line, awaiting their turn to receive water, rice and canned goods.  There was no noise, no panic, nor distress.

They had little to start with, and the little they had, they lost.  They lived in palm-roofed huts that were blown away, and now they huddle under tents of tarpaulin held up by wooden planks. When the rains revisit at night, the fathers and mothers sit in the rain, while their little ones sleep under the sparse canopies.  Help has been slow to arrive. Meek as sheep, they do not grumble. They wait.

A woman who stepped on a nail while braving the typhoon, walked many miles under scorching heat to where relief goods were distributed.  Her foot throbbed with pain as she approached my daughter and me, and she held out her parasol to shield us from the sun.  Other women joined us and offered their parasols as well. They told us they had little to eat, and when the relief supplies run out, they will share what remains with each other. Their sun-parched, emaciated faces somehow reflected an inner joy.

At that moment, I recognized the palpable wealth of the poor: they who possess little do not own the onerous burden of the “cares of this world, the deceitfulness of riches, and the lusts of other things entering in” 1.  I felt the light-hearted freedom in their hearts, the natural sensitivity to gravitate towards gratitude, as the flowers of the field blossom, facing the sun.

As the nail that pierced the woman with the parasol, so has her countenance, along with the many other tranquil faces around her, wounded and scarred my heart forever, that noonday under the sun.

“Listen, my beloved brothers, has not God chosen those who are poor in the world to be rich in faith and heirs of the kingdom, which He has promised to those who love Him?” James 2:5 ESV

D. G. Vachal © 2013

1 Mark 4:19

*** Photography courtesy of Amy Lynn Vachal

“Cry, My Beloved Islands”

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pic2

Cry, My Beloved Islands

After the fierceness of the anger
of the winds,
the habitations of my people
are mere matchsticks standing
in the sand,
multitudes walk no more:
fathers, mothers and children,
lifeless in the war-torn pavements
as torrential rainwaters
pelt their gelid flesh —

Cry, my beloved islands,
let your tears join the salty waters
that pilfered and ravaged
the pearls of life,
appease the ocean,
implore the seas
for calm,
for time to allow
the living to arise
and face another day.

D. G. Vachal © 2013

… I have been preoccupied with the devastation of one of the most severe hurricanes ever recorded, Typhoon Haiyan (Yolanda) that hit so close to home. Thankfully, my family was spared, but countless in my hometown and neighboring islands are suffering immeasurable losses and pain. In a few hours, I will fly halfway around the world to be with them.

Mango trees all uprooted...

Mango trees all uprooted…

pic3

*** photography courtesy of Sarah Lynn  

“Accustomed to the Warmth”

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Ka Olina Palm Trees - by D G Vachal
Accustomed to the Warmth

Pacific waters glitter
with sparkling emeralds,
dazzling diamonds,
bronze feet amble
through bleached white sugar sands,
brown eyes watch palm trees sway
in a Tahitian dance.

I was accustomed to the warmth,
a stranger to the cold,
when Fate carried me on her wings
to a distant place
(could it have been Faith)
where winter has a stake
for an eternal tenure.

I brave the numbness
in the cold,
await the return
of lambent green hours,
the embrace
of pale, quivering shoulders
once again.

Through frost and wind
and lashing rain,
rebirths of grass,
while lost in palettes of sunsets
and variable
shades of dawn,
I have grown

accustomed to the warmth,
familiar with the cold,
as seasons weave the mottled
tapestries of life,
brown eyes watch pine trees stand:
stalwart guards of each passing
full-orbed year.

by D. G. Vachal © 2012-2013

morning-picture-with-harmonious-pines-by-archimond1

...revised version of “Accustomed to the Warmth”, 2012

Photography:   1). Ka Olina Palm Trees by D. G. Vachal
                        2). Morning  Picture with Harmonious Pines by Archimond @ Flickr Commons