Life – lilies, sparrows and grass

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.

*** photography by slgckg @Flickr Commons

Day Sail

𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐒𝐚𝐢𝐥

The tide made docking
difficult—
I hold glowing coals
from gripping ropes,
my hair is a nest of straws
harvested
from ocean fields.

I stand on the bow and watch
you at the helm
against a Monét sky,
the coins of day spent,
your face burnt and content

from cranking chrome winches
and pulling halyards amidst
twenty knot winds:
the sloop keeled at wild angles
clowning with whitecaps,
and the scents of salt and seaweed
filled our nostrils
and we soared with the seagulls.

— D. G. Vachal

from Vachal, D. G. (2026), The Turning of Light, (Amazon)

* Image: Alone by Giampaolo Macorig

We Almost Came Back

We Almost Came Back

we almost came back
to the place where we parted
perhaps to say
we never meant
to say goodbye—

on an island ferry
I saw your face
arise from a sea
of nameless faces
and you saw mine

I sat on the brown cot,
notebook on my lap
the ferry’s horn
blasted through the cabin
as we started to move

the sun sat low on the horizon
pink and orange light
shimmered
across the wooden deck
as I wrote—

I heard footsteps from afar
you walked towards me
wearing the green shirt,
the blue jeans I knew
my legs,
they could not move

you stopped midway,
twenty steps from where I was,
leaned across the railing
and just stood there

our eyes met
then you looked away,
your hands gripped hard,
jaws tightened,
Spanish eyes peered
into the distance,
where the sea turned
darker,
deeper

I waited for you
to come closer
perhaps
you waited for me

I sat where I was—
a nearby radio played
a song we knew
when the music ended
you walked away.

the ferry reached the dark island
faint lights from other vessels
flickered upon the pier
my hands felt numb
as I grasped the gangplank ropes—

I turned my face
towards the gathering
monsoon wind

—D. G. Vachal ©2026

Image by Harrydona @pixabay

China Blue

Some poems come back to us differently over time. China Blue began in memory and longing, but also carries quieter inheritances—of Spain, of family, and of journeys that stretch farther back than I once understood. When my father brought his children and grandchildren to Spain, it felt less like travel than return. And somewhere behind the blue of memory lingers an older story still.

China Blue

China blue in my veins
throbs
with Valencia orange groves
sways
with weeping willows
beside the bamboo-lined
waters—

El Greco blue
lines my heart-valves
pulsates
with nightingale songs
dances
with crimson chrysanthemums
under the autumn sun—

Where the sun rises
I greet the dwindling sunset
speak the dialect
of disparate vernaculars—

China blue in my veins
and the orange groves.

Polonaise in A-Flat Major, Op. 53

Polonaise in A-Flat Major, Op. 53

The last gold of evening
lingered
upon the piano keys
after the music
had already ended—

I come back to the old piano
my mother used to play
her etudes and concertos,
the ivory keys
yellowed by time—

suddenly I hear
the ecstatic pounding
of Chopin’s Polonaise
in A-Flat Major—

my mother’s hands
striking the old piano
long after evening
had darkened

D. G. Vachal © 2026

Accompanying image created with AI assistance

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Tag: Life

New York Harbor, One September

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Day Sail

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We Almost Came Back

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China Blue

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Polonaise in A-Flat Major, Op. 53

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