Momentary Blooms
Are there memories
senseless
to logical sentiments,
written off as never-
happenstance hypotheses
by mountain goat-bearded
wise sages —
why then
do rainbow whirlwinds
hover over peripheries
of my befuddled mind,
radiate
in the recessive
penumbra
of my tranquil heart —
thoughts of loves
long forgotten
momentarily bloom
like purple
crocus petals
on the frigid soil
of weather-beaten
March gardens —
why then
do they disappear
in April.
D. G. Vachal © 2025
Image by Couleur @Pixabay
My Father and the Jasmine Flowers
street waifs
stringing white flowers
into long, fragrant necklaces,
plucked them from the sky
shook them from the tall green bushes
until they fell like rain upon the grass —-
jasmine necklaces sold
for devout señoras to wear
at Flores de Mayo processions
five centavos for all that work,
three
if señoras haggled long enough —-
were you one of the little ones
hands baked by the sun,
wide-eyed,
barefoot,
hungry?
how time comes and leaves
so swiftly
as in half a breath,
as in a hurried dream,
and for whatever
reason there may have been
I came to be —-
older folks would tell me
you walked miles to school,
no centavos for a ride,
and your classmates laughed and sneered
as they rode the bus and passed you by,
you walked on
carrying your dreams
in your heart.
how time comes and leaves
so swiftly
as in half a breath,
as in a hurried dream,
and you are gone —-
tonight
as I recall the tales of folks
from long ago
I drench my pillow
with the fragrant tears
of white jasmine flowers
through the midnight hours,
into the break of dawn.
D. G. Vachal © 2024
Image by Oom Endro @ Pixabay
A Tale of the Lost Leather Wrist Bag
The air was a white, pearlescent haze as I walked upon the street cobblestones along some quaint shops in a New England village. A small leather bag hanged from my right wrist and in it were my credit cards, driver’s license, passport, and some dollar bills. I felt uncomfortable with the small bag as it was not the shoulder bag I usually carry around.
After walking a while, I sought refuge in a furniture store where I could rest my aching feet. It was then when I noticed that my little leather bag was no longer around my wrist. Suddenly I felt a whirlwind of panic — I have lost the objects of my identity! In the midst of my bewilderment, a kind, middle-aged lady approached me and I told her my plight. With a sweet, soothing voice she said, “My dear, everything can be replaced”.
I blinked and rubbed my eyes. It was all a dream.
The leather wrist bag flashed in my mind and immediately I was smacked with a shock of recognition: it was the exact same bag my father had given me to hold my passport, plane ticket and three single dollar bills when I left home decades ago to pursue graduate studies in a foreign land.
All I owned when I embarked on the plane were three single dollar bills, a few clothes in a small suitcase, and my name.
In a faraway land, God has faithfully provided for me through the promise of each new day, especially through difficult circumstances, across the landscapes of the seasons and the years.
In this life I can easily misplace so many worldly “things” which can be replaced. What I cannot lose is the essence of who I am as a child of God. Though the seedling has grown into a strong, tall tree which blossoms every spring, I am that same young lady who left everything behind, flew towards the stars, crossed oceans and mountains, to pursue a dream.
D. G. Vachal © 2024
Image by Kanenori @ Pixabay
Love Haiku 10:12
10
Where are you my love
long ago our last goodbye
lilacs bloom again
11
After i lost you
i searched through endless forests
silent are the pines
12
in our lost garden
flutters a butterfly white
awaiting the dawn
D. G. Vachal © 2024
Teach Me to Number My Days
Teach me to number my days
the way You number
the hairs on my head,
the way You are mindful
of petals and sparrows
as they fall with the leaves
in the mist of autumn rain —
was it only this morning
when my hair was in pigtails,
as I dressed my dolls
in pink dresses,
dreamt of a fairytale prince
upon a white stallion
awaiting to take me to a castle
hidden in emerald forests —
towards noon
when I felt butterflies
fluttering in clandestine chambers
of my youthful heart,
I met my first love
and time was suspended,
drowned in ivory clouds
and endless blue oceans —
i can still feel the afternoon warmth
when the children came
and their laughter mingled
with the melody of songbirds,
the hum of restless cicadas —
at sunset my love and I
rowed the silent rivers,
built a bonfire upon the sand,
held each other’s hand
for warmth —
and now at twilight
wrapped in the lavender glow,
i treasure the dwindling vestiges
of tender moments,
the faint beloved
song that will remain
when evening falls.
O teach me to number my days.
D. G. Vachal @ 2024
Image by Liuksena @ Pixabay
lilies, sparrows and grass 
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