My soul dwells secure
in pleasant mountains
Creator-carved,
where cloud-sent rains
descend to quench
the thirsty tongues
and rays of molten sun
embrace to warm
the evening-cold shoulders —
What little matters to some
are minuscule,
momentary dewdrops
adrift
in endless possibilities,
whirling from the gift
of measured life-breaths
apportioned to the living of us all —
every sacred
miraculous moment
of what we call today.
By D. G. Vachal © 2015
Photo credit: Yinka Oyelese
The days ride the chariot of the whirlwind:
tomorrow’s sun is yet to be appointed —
you hold this moment’s gold, this second’s gem.
Today is bread that feeds your hunger,
strength for constricted hands
that throb to open to those in need,
(always, there are those in need)
bestow kindness even to those unkind.
Give, give of this bread,
this bread of today,
each broken crumb of every fleeting second,
scatter with abandon to reach
the hungry mouths,
even the birds of the air,
the beasts of the field —
As you give of your daily bread,
verily you will be fed.
D. G. Vachal © 2014
Swept by Surprise to Moonlit Shores
Is there a weeping too deep
for the knowing,
when beauty seeps into the open
pores of the soul,
descends to the ocean floors
of our breathing,
swept by surprise to moonlit shores
by irregular tides —
Beauty astounds,
ruffles the colors of the corals,
disrupts the nettled pearling
of the oysters,
arrests
the wanderings of hermit crabs,
the tapestral flowering of anemones
upon the glaucous-velvet rocks —
Underneath, where it is very deep,
the blinding light dazzles,
it reaches upwards
to interminable heights,
from the tide pool to the far distance
where ancient stars blossom
incandescent pink —
Tell me,
are there waters warm enough,
is there salt enough
to mold the tears that fall
from the wonder of it all?
by D. G. Vachal © 2013
Author’s Note: My allusion to looking from the tide pool to the stars is inspired by John Steinbeck’s words in his book “Log of the Sea of Cortez: “It is advisable to look from the tide pool to the stars and then back to the tide pool again.”
*** Image by Luis Argerich @ Flickr Commons
Sourland Mountain in July
The asphalt fajita pan
sizzles,
white papal smoke ascends
from black aluminum,
scorches
naked feet,
temperatures climb, calibrated
for the appointed broiling
of flesh —
Sourland Mountain at noonday
in July:
I listen to the psalms of emerald leaves
upon twigs and branches
uplifted in praise,
the songs of the scarlet tanager,
melodious with the orchestra of Monét clouds
in this gated city of chlorophyll,
a uniform green madness —
Though I walk
through the hardness of rocks
and boulders,
I will not take this green
for granted,
I mumble on every single leaf
of fern, weed and tree,
revel
in the uncomfortable warmth,
while the green is teeming
at this very moment
before the gradual accumulated
turnings of the universe,
of sun, moon and stars
awaken
the coldness from its slumber,
before the leaves turn
into empty brown
paper bags
blown by the wind.
by D. G. Vachal © 2013
*** Photography by D. G. Vachal 2013
Cold tentacles
hold on
to burgeoning branches
beneath the April sun:
yellow butterflies alight
upon celadon lapels
of petal-packed corollas —
Skies are cyan, crystal-clear,
embossed with goose
down pillows
soaked
in alabaster dreams —
There are treasures in the morning,
this platinum morning:
emerald and gold
glimmer
over infantile leaves
of oak and elm —
ruby and sapphire,
topaz, turquoise and amethyst
sparkle
in the tranquil blooming
of the promised flowers.
by D. G. Vachal © 2013
*** Photograph by Anita Martinz @ Wikimedia Commons
lilies, sparrows and grass 