“The Poet’s Voice”

Equatorial Jungle

The poet’s voice warbles
where plaintive cellos echo
from vine to hanging vine
in rain-
drenched equatorial jungles —

trills mid-air with the sparrows,
traverses

clandestine recesses,
myriads of breadcrumb
ant trails,
rocky mountain ridges
of wind-sculptured silence —

The poet’s hand gathers
the orchard fruit promise
birthed at nighttime
from fragrant white blossoms —

The poet’s feet dance
somewhere in a warmer province
tango
across a million grains of sand
aglow with the colors
of the dawning sun.

by D. G. Vachal © 2015

 

Image Credit: Wikimedia Commons, “Equatorial Jungle” by Henri Rousseau.  This is a faithful photographic reproduction of an original two-dimensional work of art. The work of art itself is in the public domain for the following reason: This work is in the public domain in the United States, and those countries with a copyright term of life of the author plus 100 years or less.

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“Light In Our Dwellings”

Night Cabin by Andrey Golubev
Melodies kindled by hearth fires:
the refrigerator murmurs like a cello
in concert with the clanging cymbals of platters,
the violin strings of scarlet wine,
the oboe winds that scatter the leftover
crumbs of bread —

Supper flames are quenched,
night deepens towards the precipice of dawn,
outside the window
the eyelids of frozen branches close,
await the feeble warmth of winter morning.

Foxes have holes,
the graceful gazelle runs homeward
to the ebony forest,
egrets fly to their nests in the fir trees,
the mountain goats climb to their high places.

Praise, praise,
for the laughter of light in our dwellings,
the crimson fire of corpuscles pulsating
with the pendulum of time —

Praise, praise to Thee,
O Giver of Light and Life,
O Source of Strength and Joy.

D. G. Vachal © 2014

*** Photography Credit: “Night Cabin” by Andrey Golubev

“Winter Interim of the Heart”

by Eugene Dudarev
There is a winter interim of the heart
when a million white butterflies descend
from ripened cocoons in the sky,
soundless wings flutter,
cluster into spools of wool
for the weaving loom.

Surrounded by the starkness of white
you search for rainbow colors
only to find an empty, outstretched
canvas upon the easel,
an artist’s paintbrush, a pail of gesso,
your naked hands.

There is a winter interim of the heart,
a jagged juncture of time when you discard
easel and paintbrush,
for the weaving of wool,
the molding of sculptures
steadfast in the evanescent snow.

by D. G. Vachal © 2014

*** Photography by Eugene Dudarev