New York Harbor, One September


I first published this poem in 2012, remembering a sail into New York Harbor only days after September 11, 2001—the altered skyline, the smoke upon the water, and the journey back toward home.

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 asleep under a cupola
of infinite constellations.

by D. G. Vachal. © 2012

*** photography by slgckg @Flickr Commons

The Precious Possession

7 dimineata

“A lazy man does not roast his prey, but the precious possession of a man is diligence.” Proverbs 12:27,  NASB

There is a certain possession that the Bible esteems as valuable, something to be desired.  It is not a material treasure; it cannot be bought with worldly currency.  That precious possession is diligence.

The best way I can expound upon this scripture is to share how I have witnessed this trait from my parents. To this day, they continue to amaze me beyond words.   I don’t ever remember seeing them idle or wasting time.   When I was growing up, I recall both of them going to work early in the morning each day.   As both of them are lawyers, they had plenty of things to occupy them; however, they somehow managed to come home and eat three meals with their children almost every day.

When my father was home, I remember that he would either be reading or writing.  My mother incessantly tended to projects that she would follow through to completion.  They were compassionate people, reaching out to help the poor and underprivileged.  I remember many times when we children would have to sit squeezed shoulder-to-shoulder at the dinner table because some poor folks were invited to dine with us.

My father is now in his eighties, but he still goes to work every day:  he serves the people as the oldest member of Congress in a Southeast Asian country.  Surrounded with books and so many documents to read and review,  he always carries a pen,  a small pad of paper, or a book to read.  My mother is in her late seventies, and yes, she also goes to work each day.  A long time ago, when I was a little child, she started a cooperative to help and encourage poor people to save their money and to free them from the grasp of greedy usurers.  What she set into motion decades ago has now grown by leaps and bounds — from a membership of less than 20, and at present, to almost a hundred thousand — one of the biggest cooperatives in a Southeast Asian country.

Diligence involves perseverance, persistence, and tenacity.  It is not achieved overnight, but grows through the days and through the years as it is applied.  It is honoring one’s Creator with making the best use of one’s time and talents, and like the cooperative that my mother once started, through daily application, grows exponentially in value.  Diligence eventually becomes a person’s precious possession where moths cannot corrupt, nor can thieves break through and steal.

Originally posted 2012-01-17 21:42:17.

The Living Word, Beheld

While reading Hermann Hesse’s “The Living Word” (from Seasons of the Soul), I was struck by a quiet and enduring truth: that the Word, however sacred, however beautiful, is never meant to be held at a distance. It must be lived, or it loses its life within us.

His poem does not argue this, it simply reminds. And in that reminder, something in me answered: What happens when truth is no longer contemplated, but encountered, when it is no longer spoken, but beheld?

I found myself returning to a poem I had written some time ago, and I now read it differently:

When Truth and I Behold Each Other

When Truth and I behold each other,
my heart pulsates to the tempo of the soft-
spoken mist of rain that tiptoes
after the last bellow of the drunken
thunder has been silenced —

I forget this leavened flesh,
I am no longer
a tree walking
in my tannin espadrilles,
the alabaster egrets carry
my gesturing branches
across the turquoise oceans —

I am left with my eyes
sown in the meadow of the galaxies,
primordial light-years turn transparent
corneal sheaths
into the sun’s corona —

the brilliance is beyond diamonds.

— D. G. Vachal

Perhaps this is one way of receiving the “living word” — not as something we hold, but as something that overtakes us, reshapes us, and carries us beyond ourselves.

Surprised by Light

Surprised by Light

surprised by light,
it burrows through drape fibers,
casts silver threads upon my pillow,
brushes my eyelids
with soft white feathers —

surprised by daybreak,
the pink and amber sky,
the robin’s first song,
rejoicing —

surprised
by gladness.

D. G. Vachal © 2025

Image by Susanne Nilsson, CC BY-SA 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons