Last Days of December

My thoughts again… on the last day of December….

lilies, sparrows and grass


Last Days of December

Time to be       tranquil now
no longer the consonant     prattle of leaves
in tussle with vowels         of the wind,
whatever must fall
has
fallen
to the brumal ground,
flower by flower,
seed by seed.

Colors linger in the sky,
of rose bouquets and tiger lilies,
and the poetry of April crouches
in fetal position
within the uterus of vaporous
snow clouds —

Time to be still.

by D. G. Vachal © 2012

*** Photography by Paolo De Faveri

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“Archipelago”


Between now and oblivion
lies an archipelago
infinitesimal
as a grain of sand,
expansive as the universe
of my remembrances:
where lost loves wander
stranded,
entangled,
enslaved.

The islands are mine:
the ylang-ylang,
jasmine and hibiscus —
let the florid scents haunt
my shipwrecked loves
as taunting ghosts warble
melodies of our laughter —
let parrots recite my poetry
from parchments drenched
in perfumed
tears.

O Archipelago!
for the leaving
I cannot leave,
for the weeping
I cannot weep —

tidal waves do not
wear you down,
nor the anger
of volcanoes —

you are always there
between now and oblivion.

by D. G. Vachal © 2012

* photograph: Archipel Sulu, Phillipinen by Volker

… an edited version of the original poem written in 2012

“Cry, My Beloved Islands”

pic2

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…

pic3

*** photography courtesy of Sarah Lynn  

“Apples of the Unseen”



I grasp apples of the unseen,
bite deep into the pulp:
the tartness impels the furtive
flight of feet
to a wilderness far
from this tended garden —

Surrounded by the rustle
of sycamore leaves,
I hear the eagle
wingspans of Your voice,
I run for shelter

cocoon-ensconced
from the clamorous
strife of tongues,
I await
the song-soft whispers,
the lemon-yellow flutters —

Fragile wings bloom
with every springtime rose,
watered by vibrant,
crimson rivulets
flowing
from the distant hill.

by D. G. Vachal © 2013

“Thou shalt hide them in the secret of thy presence from the pride of man: thou shalt keep them secretly in a pavilion from the strife of tongues.” Psalm 31:20

New York Harbor, One September

… a September 2001 memory

lilies, sparrows and grass


New York Harbor, One September

… a September memory, 2001

September comes
with its whimsical wind,
and the bittern’s barbaric yawp
echoes across the creek,
a snowfall of seagulls perch
upon the jetty,
watch
as we hoist our sails
at the mouth of the bay —

the sloop floats like paper
blown
by a little boy’s breath,
past inlet coves and marinas:
we reach the Harbor,
the sun’s golden glint turns to rust,
the air is clothed
with subtle shrouds of grey
for weeping —

far off into the distance the skyline
is a ghastly dream,
toothless
of two towers,
and the salt air mingles with smoke
and burning steel,
ashened mortar,
the  putrescence
of flesh and flowers —

we turn around,
maneuver the wind,
the charts and tides,
to reach our own secluded harbor,
cradled by the arms of moonlight—
we throw down the anchor,
fall sleep under a cupola

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