Category: Life

We Almost Came Back

We Almost Came Back​
​
we almost came back ​
to the place where we parted​
perhaps to say​
we never meant​
to say goodbye—​
​
on an island ferry
I saw your face​
arise from a sea​
of nameless faces​
and you saw mine​
​
I sat on the brown cot,​
notebook on my lap ​
the ferry’s horn ​
blasted through the cabin ​
as we started to move ​
​
the sun sat low on the horizon​
pink and orange light​
shimmered​
across the wooden deck ​
as I wrote—​
​
I heard footsteps from afar​
you walked towards me​
wearing the green shirt,​
the blue jeans I knew​
my legs,​
they could not move​
​
you stopped midway,​
twenty steps from where I was,​
leaned across the railing​
and just stood there​
​
our eyes met​
then you looked away,​
your hands gripped hard,​
jaws tightened,
Spanish eyes peered​
into the distance,​
where the sea turned​
darker,​
deeper​
​
I waited for you ​
to come closer​
perhaps​
you waited for me​
​
I sat where I was—​
a nearby radio played​
a song we knew​
when the music ended​
you walked away.​
​
the ferry reached the dark island​
faint lights from other vessels​
flickered upon the pier​
my hands felt numb​
as I grasped the gangplank ropes—​
​
I turned my face​
towards the gathering​
monsoon wind​
​
—D. G. Vachal ©2026​

Image by Harrydona @pixabay

Among the Jasmine Blossoms

Among the Jasmine Blossoms

a key opens
my father’s filing cabinet
locked
for so long —

the second drawer
overflows with my letters:
stamped envelopes
squiggly pen strokes
from when I was a child,
a teenager,
a young woman,
a mother —

every letter quietly kept
as a jewel
when they came to him
from far away —

now that I am near
I hear his laughter
while I walk in the garden
among the jasmine blossoms.

D. G. Vachal ©2026

Image Attribution: Mokkie, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0&gt;, via Wikimedia Commons

November the Penultimate


November the Penultimate

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

the latter days arrive
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 Years, My Friend

Winter by Farhad
The Years, My Friend

The years, my friend, have not been kind
upon your marble face —

I hear the river songs
tinkle with the cymbals,
I see your eyes shrivel
like unpicked grapes on the vine,
your mouth a wounded cherry
pecked by restless robins.

Take my hand, my friend,
let us go to the calling fields
that blaze with diamonds
under the eternal skies,
to the orchards in the midst of winter,
where leafless branches stand dauntless
in the endless cold,
telling jubilant tales
in the blizzard of their days —

Hearken to the legends
of root, of bud, of sun,
and to the promise
(believe the promise)
that warmth and springtime
will return,
(they always return)
once again.

by D. G. Vachal © 2013, 2025

*** Photography by Farhad

The Fire of Your Fingertips

The Fire of Your Fingertips

I will not take this warmth for granted
as I behold the fire
of your fingertips,
woodwinds of your voice
carried by soft breezes —

tomorrow holds a sheet of white:
leafless branches
in the wintry blizzard winds,
little do I know
if you will be beside me still —

I will not take this warmth for granted
as I behold the fire
of your fingertips.

D. G. Vachal © 2025



Image by Stux@pixabay