Category: Writing

“Cry, My Beloved Islands”

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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…

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*** photography courtesy of Sarah Lynn  

“Accustomed to the Warmth”

Ka Olina Palm Trees - by D G Vachal
Accustomed to the Warmth

Pacific waters glitter
with sparkling emeralds,
dazzling diamonds,
bronze feet amble
through bleached white sugar sands,
brown eyes watch palm trees sway
in a Tahitian dance.

I was accustomed to the warmth,
a stranger to the cold,
when Fate carried me on her wings
to a distant place
(could it have been Faith)
where winter has a stake
for an eternal tenure.

I brave the numbness
in the cold,
await the return
of lambent green hours,
the embrace
of pale, quivering shoulders
once again.

Through frost and wind
and lashing rain,
rebirths of grass,
while lost in palettes of sunsets
and variable
shades of dawn,
I have grown

accustomed to the warmth,
familiar with the cold,
as seasons weave the mottled
tapestries of life,
brown eyes watch pine trees stand:
stalwart guards of each passing
full-orbed year.

by D. G. Vachal © 2012-2013

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...revised version of “Accustomed to the Warmth”, 2012

Photography:   1). Ka Olina Palm Trees by D. G. Vachal
                        2). Morning  Picture with Harmonious Pines by Archimond @ Flickr Commons

“October Sunset”

october-sunset-by-deirdra-vachal-21
October Sunset

How many sunsets have I missed
while threading needles,
tending the hearth,
kneading the flour
for our daily bread —

Today
I chanced upon a sunset:
a brilliant bonfire in the sky
of apricot flames,
periwinkle smoke,
while autumnal leaves ripen
for the harvest —

bequeath the gold and rubies
to the children of spring.

by D. G. Vachal © 2013

*** photography by D. G. Vachal

“A Lion In Autumn”


A Lion In Autumn

Autumn and the reddening leaves
bask in the glow of an Indian summer sun,
I run through the wind in cambric
playtime clothes,
laughter explodes upon my face,
there is a warmth,
an amber warmth that lingers
in this momentary breath
of treasured hours —

I trace the furrows upon his face,
watch infinite shades
of a tangerine sunset
as I listen to stories of the times
when the olive groves were heavy
with fruit,
the songs of lemon blossoms
plenteous as raindrops
upon the dark green leaves —

Now the lion that prowled
through emerald forests
walks in slow, ordered steps,
protruding bones define the sagging,
golden fur,
he holds my arm,
I walk with him,
he and I
no longer swept
in the quick-footed dance
of my elusive childhood —

Time stands still,
palpable as the immutable truth
that luminescent stars sparkle
eternal in the heavens,
and the warmth that lingers
on this jasmine-white day
burns like a candle,
an obstinate flame that glows
eternal in my heart,
no matter the winter,
no matter the cold.

by D. G. Vachal © 2013

*** Image: Autumn by Denizler 

“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