The Laughter of October
Mirth at sunset,
when herons scream
like children
in the shallows,
and up
on the branches,
aurulent shafts of light
play with the shadows
of auburn leaves —
Come to me and stay
awhile,
for the laughter of October
is upon my face,
a golden glow,
a raging fire that hides
in the Indian summers
of my heart.
by D. G. Vachal. © 2012
*** photography by DigitalArt2@Flickr Commons
Chestnuts in Kowloon
I have been to the Fragrant Harbor
far away,
where the people sounded like rain
upon the cobblestones,
and their laughter I called my own,
for once, for a little while
I was there
with you as we walked
past market stalls with the cackle
of hagglers
and scents of sesame and jasmine
filled the air,
we climbed tall buildings
and the peak of a mountain,
I was there
with you as we crossed the harbor
along with salt and seaweed,
by noon we reached Kowloon
famished,
and we shared a paper bag
filled with roasted chestnuts:
there by the lotus pond,
the moist white warmth and our dreams
fed our nameless hunger —
now the Fragrant Harbor awaits
far away,
but I am no longer there,
save the shriveled husks of chestnuts
we threw away so long ago
that for once, for a little while
burned among the coals.
by D. G. V. © 2012
“This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.” Psalm 118:24
In the midst of a frenzied afternoon at work today, I paused to read an email from my daughter Amy:
“I’ve been thinking about this quote a lot lately: “This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” The last two words, “in it”, are what have me thinking. The phrase makes it seem like it’s a special place – a porcelain cup, specially made, specially prepared – to rejoice, to revel, to live fully in — when you are in something like a cup of tea, surrounded.”
Any given second, any given breath, we are within the walls of a day. We can’t see tomorrow – and so we can only treat it with what we can’t see – with hope (but how great is our hope when we think about Jesus)? We see only today, and our hands, and our feet, and our loved ones, and whatever else God has given us for today. “
What Amy wanted to tell me is that today is not only a special time, but a unique and wondrous place designed by God for us to live and breathe in.
The porcelain tea cup of today.
I smile at the thought of today and of pink porcelain cups.
by D. G. V.
*** Author’s Note: this link leads to a poem I wrote for my daughter Amy.
Ripple
How many pages of time have fallen like leaves
shaken from oaks by autumn winds —
You came from a distant land
fragrant
with plum blossoms,
where weeping willows shed their tears
upon the lakes,
and bamboo groves rustle love songs
in the summer breeze —
I remember
late afternoon by a lagoon so long ago,
into the water you threw a pebble,
concentric circles carved in liquid,
widened into forever,
flowed into the oceans,
kissed the setting sun.
I remember
you gave me a name,
inscribed in ink:
two characters in graceful dance,
as you pointed to the circles,
the ripple you awakened
with the pebble in your hand.
I have forgotten
the rainbow,
the butterfly by that lagoon so long ago,
and milky water lilies sprightly with scarlet hearts,
for a thousand footsteps have carried us miles away,
to separate continents,
other loves.
by D. G. V. © 2012
*** Photography by Oleg Dmitriev, Circles on the water
for my father — a childhood memory….
Late morning silhouette:
unwelcome shadows,
purple grey subtlety
suffocate the sun
I am befuddled by the silence,
absence of laughter,
ordinary talk,
the smile on my mother’s face —
Sunday respite away from home,
a town where my father was born, we would
spend hours at Aunt Andrea’s house
until the sunset bid farewell
and the gas lamps gave light along with fireflies
and the crickets chirped on.
I was a little child less than school age
in pigtails and petticoats
wondering where my father went that day
for I longed for his strong presence
amidst this baffling purple silhouette —
I crossed the pebbled country road,
climbed up a stunted hill
to Grandma’s house and I found
my father weeping,
hunched under a native fruit tree,
mournful violin strings uncontrollable,
relentless rivulets of tears cascade
for a brother to be buried,
at height of youth,
poisoned
at a town feast the week before
a chef’s senseless blunder —
Wide brown eyes watched in wonder,
my little child’s heart cried at his distress and he
looked back and beheld his daughter,
his countenance contorted in grief softening,
and slowly the mournful music lulled
as he staggered to where I stood
and my father held my hand
and he and I chased the purple shadows out of the morning
as we walked down the hill
along with life and the sunlight.
© 2012 by D. G. Vachal, revised 2021
* photography by Аркадий Деев
lilies, sparrows and grass 
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