About liliessparrowsandgrass

Daughter of God, Lover of poetry and writing; fond of travel, data analysis, and politics .

Tousled Lady

Tousled Lady

in the parking lot
lugging milk and corn flakes
and bread in brown
paper bags,
you catch
my stolen glance
at your little
boy,
you grimace,
forgive me
for intruding
into your private
world —
I walk away

into the store,
Friday towards dusk,
my hair flows neatly down
my shoulders,
my blouse
crisp and creaseless,
my list is short,
the evening hours long

for the laughter of my little ones,
the crinkle of brown
paper bags, the crackling
of corn flakes in milk,
the warmth of bread baked
in my own peculiar
world
of long ago.

by D. G. Vachal © 2012

Rest Beside the Still Waters

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures ; He leadeth
me beside the still waters ; He restoreth my soul .” .
Ps. xxiii. 2 , 3.

~ a synopsis and modern translation of George Matheson’s writing


Would it be an easy thing for a person to confess the Lord to be their Shepherd when brought to green pastures beside still waters? Who would not rejoice in the peace and contentment, surrounded by such a peaceful surrounding? In truth, one must sound the depths of one’s soul because no one can lie down in peace until one has received a restored soul.

It is as equally difficult for an unrestored soul to lie down in green pastures as to wallow in barren wastelands. Do you think that an unrestful heart will have more rest in prosperity than in adversity? No, an unrestul heart will carry itself into everything. Prosperity is not found in the greenness of the pastures — adversity lies not in the barrenness of the wastelands; they both lie within.

The joyous heart will make all things joyful, its pastures will always be green, its waters will all be quiet. The restless heart will make all things unrestful: the calmness of the outward scene will be its source of pain.

We cannot fly from ourselves by changing our circumstances: we can only change our own circumstances by fleeing from ourselves. The sweetness and bitterness of life are alike within us, and we shall receive from the world just what we bring to it.

Oh my soul, if you would have green pastures, if you desire quiet waters, if you should seek for a place where you can lie down and rest, then you must first be restored. You must set aside your own self before you can find a scenery of repose.

Then when you are at rest, all things can be yours — the world, life, death, angels, principalities, powers — you can claim them as your servants. You can extract joy out of sorrow, sleep in the ship of life when the storm is raging around you. You shall spread your table in the presence of your enemies.

Goodness and mercy shall follow you all the days of your life when your soul shall have been restored.

*** Reference: George Matheson, “The Secret of Peace”, Moments on the Mount, London: James Nisbet & Co.1884, pp. 67-69

*** Photography by Alfred Derks at Pixabay

My Love I Love


my love I love

because you love me,
in your arms
content in winter
while hearths aglow
with applewood
flames —

my love I love

because I hold you
in my arms
asleep as I
hush
boisterous winds,
that trouble
your wounded
heart —

my love I love

D. G. Vachal © 2023

Photography by Mabel Amber

I Write To Find You

I Write to Find You

Nameless sorrow,
grief unspoken,
tears flow
from boundless oceans,
torrential rains
lambaste
ebony waters —

you are gone  

I search syllables,
consonants,
vowels once spoken
by a voice beloved
reverberating still
in the chambers
of my broken heart —

only silence

weary eyes close  
at light of dawn,
your face flashes
in the clouds
of my restless
dreams until

I awaken to begin
my search
to find you
once again.

D. G. Vachal © 2023

Forgotten Things

I have forgotten
things elusive
tightly held
by my tiny hands —

paper dolls
with dainty dresses,
angel food cupcakes
frillless
on fluted white paper,
sticky lemon drops 
melting  
through my little fingers —

I have forgotten
things elusive
closely held
by my childhood heart —

scrawny pencil squiggles
of Cinderella stories,
poems of sun and moon,
jasmine and gardenia
and the fragrant rain —

I have forgotten
things
I have not really
lost.

D. G. Vachal (c) 2022