Category: Poems

Last Days of Summer


Last Days of Summer

Lemon scents linger
from blooms of white magnolia,
while a cool breeze tiptoes,
donned in ornate lace
into a summer dusk cathedral:
I hear the mellow sound of shaken leaves
upon their sun-tanned branches,
harp strings stroked by fingers
of the wind —

The purple grosbeak’s song endures
into the night,
nectared notes delight
as I revel in these ardent days
of crimson apples,
the primrose pulp of aubergine plums,
the musk-white fragrance of orange
blossoms,
the golden cloak of summer’s warmth
upon the vibrant flowers.

by D. G. V. © 2012

** photography by Roman Niku

The Tea Cup of Today

“This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”  Psalm 118:24

 In the midst of a frenzied afternoon at work today, I paused to read an email from my daughter Amy:

“I’ve been thinking about this quote a lot lately:  “This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.”  The last two words, “in it”, are what have me thinking. The phrase makes it seem like it’s a special place – a porcelain cup, specially made, specially prepared – to rejoice, to revel, to live fully in — when you are in something like a cup of tea, surrounded.”

Any given second, any given breath, we are within the walls of a day. We can’t see tomorrow – and so we can only treat it with what we can’t see – with hope (but how great is our hope when we think about Jesus)? We see only today, and our hands, and our feet, and our loved ones, and whatever else God has given us for today. “

What Amy wanted to tell me is that today is not only a special time, but a unique and wondrous place designed by God for us to live and breathe in.

The porcelain tea cup of today.

I smile at the thought of today and of pink porcelain cups.

by D. G. V.

*** Author’s Note: this link leads to a poem I wrote for my daughter Amy.

Breathlessly Miskeyed

Breathlessly Miskeyed

Oh when a thousand tongues
sing praises
to an unbefitting god,
then the world turns
upside down,
somersaults,
flips over,
plunges into depths
under violent waves,
no breath
for shriveled lungs
till blue meets blue
in direful depths,
suspenseful
waiting,
pleading
for a gasp
of air,
for life,
for truth.

© 2012  by D. G. V.

* photo: Swan Underwater by Viktor Lyagushkin @flickr

Ripple

Ripple

How many pages of time have fallen like leaves
shaken from oaks by autumn winds —

You came from a distant land
fragrant
with plum blossoms,
where weeping willows shed their tears
upon the lakes,
and bamboo groves rustle love songs
in the summer breeze —

I remember

late afternoon by a lagoon so long ago,
into the water you threw a pebble,
concentric circles carved in liquid,
widened  into forever,
flowed into the oceans,
kissed the setting sun.

I remember

you gave me a name,
inscribed in ink:
two characters in graceful dance,
as you pointed to the circles,
the ripple you awakened
with the pebble in your hand.

I have forgotten

the rainbow,
the butterfly by that lagoon so long ago,
and milky water lilies sprightly with scarlet hearts,
for a thousand footsteps have carried us miles away,
to separate continents,
other loves.

by D. G. V. © 2012

*** Photography by Oleg Dmitriev, Circles on the water

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