A Stranger at Sunset

A Stranger at Sunset

the sky was light mandarin
the first time we met
you, a stranger from far away,
my task to welcome you
to our land
for just a few hours —

you and I
walked to the bus stop
you with your crisp white shirt
long sleeves,
creaseless
I with a topsy-turvy skirt,
mismatched blouse
checkered,
floral,
yellow, pink, and green —

shy and tongue-tied was I
you spoke on through my silence
your footsteps
confident
upon the cobbled streets
while I stumbled on —

you found a place for us to dine,
a table where the light fell soft
upon your face
for the first time
I looked into your eyes
as you looked into mine —

the dusty red bus brought us back
to the same stop
there we said goodbye
your smile lighted the night’s darkness
it was then I knew
I would see you again.

D. G. Vachal ©2025

Image by ELG21 @pixabay

A Cold December Night and the Rain

A Cold December Night and the Rain

A cold December night and the rain
pummels the rooftops,
drops colorless pearls
on the kitchen window
my reflection
cloudy on the wet glass,
as icicle fingertips put away
pots and pans where they belong
hidden
until tomorrow’s bidding —

Long ago on a cold December night like this
while the rain pummeled the rooftops,
a porcelain cup broke gently,
delicate Saxon flowers
shattered on the floor
as I knelt to collect the broken pieces,
soft footsteps walked towards the door
and in an eternal moment
the door closed
slowly
like an ebbing tide —

A cold December night and the rain
pummels my heart
and once again
the rain brings me back to a place
of scattered Saxon flowers,
a broken porcelain cup
that once was whole.

D. G. Vachal © 2025

Image by AnNeef @ Pixabay

November the Penultimate


November the Penultimate

Never was a month so motley in its days:
November, penultimate month
of a year that frames the seasons,
when leaves in early days
turn to brightest garnet,
blazing topaz,
illuminated gold —

the latter days arrive
with the fire of the winds,
and the burning leaves take the plunge
from infernal towers of the branches
to the burial grounds of a gun-
metal, brumal earth —

November, November,
calves ache from the marathon,
hearts pound the door
to another December

when holly berries huddle upon the petals
of the soft-spoken snow,
and the fallen leaves breathe again
at the sound of the carols of the children,
the children rejoicing.

D. G. Vachal © 2013

Photography Credit: November’s Decline by Bucaneve

Love Haiku 49:51

Love Haiku 49:51

49

you have gone away
with torrential summer rains
fall river lies low

50

wind moans through the cliffs
murmurs through leafless birches
I whisper your name

51

dusk falls on water
golden colors linger long
I yearn for your smile

D. G. Vachal © 2025

Image by Aleksandr Gorlov, Public Domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Colors of Autumn

Colors of Autumn

The turning of colors
like the turning of tides,
the waxing moon’s gradient shift
to fullness
in pearlescent light,
the chilly air’s osmosis
imperceptible,
permeating a blanket of warmth —

emeralds turn to topaz,
malachite to rubies,
nightingale songs grow faint
as in a moment’s dream —

I was here
many times before
and once again I am

swept in this lunatic array
of colors:
salmon and salamander,
citrine and vermilion,
french horns and trombone,
a cacophony of shades and tinctures —

these moments soon will pass
like many times before
yet for a little while
let me wrap myself
in the colors of Autumn:
Joseph’s coat
of many colors.

D. G. Vachal © 2025

Author’s note: This poem was inspired by a passage from “The Strings are False” by the Irish poet Louis MacNeice. 

“The train for Jersey City was called the Blue Comet and I sat in a luxury Pullman car that was all windows and beyond the windows a reel of autumn madness, the maple trees gone drunk with colour. Tigers and wine, pimento, copper, coral, the bells of St. Clement’s jangling and fanfaronade of trumpets, fireworks out of the ground, Giorgione, Veronese, the tents of all the Sultans. People had told me about the American Fall, and this was it.”  (“Louis MacNeice, The Strings are False, Faber and Faber Limited, Great Britain, 1965, p. 30.”)

Image by: chensiyuan, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0&gt;, via Wikimedia Commons