Category: Family

Voices at the Door

Voices at the Door

fingerprints
on the ribbed window pane
crust crumbs
on the kitchen floor
apple cider bubbling
on the stove —

where have the children gone
I hug them in the warmth
of hearth fires,
hear their laughter
in the songs
of the autumn wind —

leaves plummet in violent swirls
like flocks of sandpipers
landing on the shore
topaz and rubies fade
into the salmon sky —

before winter comes
I long to hear
“the steps returning
and voices at the door” .

D. G. Vachal © 2024

* “the steps returning and voices at the door” is a passage from J. R. R. Tolkien’s poem ” I Sit Beside the Fire and Think”

Image by J Plenio @pixabay

“Cry, My Beloved Islands”

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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…

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*** photography courtesy of Sarah Lynn  

“A Lion In Autumn”


A Lion In Autumn

Autumn and the reddening leaves
bask in the glow of an Indian summer sun,
I run through the wind in cambric
playtime clothes,
laughter explodes upon my face,
there is a warmth,
an amber warmth that lingers
in this momentary breath
of treasured hours —

I trace the furrows upon his face,
watch infinite shades
of a tangerine sunset
as I listen to stories of the times
when the olive groves were heavy
with fruit,
the songs of lemon blossoms
plenteous as raindrops
upon the dark green leaves —

Now the lion that prowled
through emerald forests
walks in slow, ordered steps,
protruding bones define the sagging,
golden fur,
he holds my arm,
I walk with him,
he and I
no longer swept
in the quick-footed dance
of my elusive childhood —

Time stands still,
palpable as the immutable truth
that luminescent stars sparkle
eternal in the heavens,
and the warmth that lingers
on this jasmine-white day
burns like a candle,
an obstinate flame that glows
eternal in my heart,
no matter the winter,
no matter the cold.

by D. G. Vachal © 2013

*** Image: Autumn by Denizler 

A Childhood Memory of My Father

 

for my father — a childhood memory….


Late morning silhouette:
unwelcome shadows,
purple grey subtlety
suffocate the sun
I am befuddled by the silence,
absence of laughter,
ordinary talk,
the smile on my mother’s face —

Sunday respite away from home,
a town where my father was born, we would
spend hours at Aunt Andrea’s house
until the sunset bid farewell
and the gas lamps gave light along with fireflies
and the crickets chirped on.

I was a little child less than school age
in pigtails and petticoats
wondering where my father went that day
for I longed for his strong presence
amidst this baffling purple silhouette —

I crossed the pebbled country road,
climbed up a stunted hill
to Grandma’s house and I found
my father weeping,
hunched under a native fruit tree,
mournful violin strings uncontrollable,
relentless rivulets of tears cascade
for a brother to be buried,
at height of youth,
poisoned
at a town feast the week before
a chef’s senseless blunder —

Wide brown eyes watched in wonder,
my little child’s heart cried at his distress and he
looked back and beheld his daughter,
his countenance contorted in grief softening,
and slowly the mournful music lulled
as he staggered to where I stood
and my father held my hand
and he and I chased the purple shadows out of the morning
as we walked down the hill
along with life and the sunlight.

© 2012 by D. G. Vachal, revised 2021

* photography by Аркадий Деев