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

A Summer Remembrance

A Summer Remembrance

at the end of daytime fever
I hear the thunder
rumbling in the distance
a forgotten song from long ago —

is it you, my lost love,
your beloved voice
resonant
in the clouds,
a lament of lavender longing
and the firefly lightnings —

did you come to let me know
infinitely far from the miles of sky
that you remember my smile,
and how life would have been
filled with flowers
if we walked hand in hand
in the summer rain,
just you and I  —

now comes the twilight,
the rumbling thunder fades
into a sigh
and I walk in my garden
alone
with this poignant longing
of holding your hand.

D. G. Vachal (c) 2025

Image by Geronimo Giquea @Unsplash

Momentary Blooms

Momentary Blooms

Are there memories
senseless
to logical sentiments,
written off as never-
happenstance hypotheses
by mountain goat-bearded
wise sages —

why then
do rainbow whirlwinds
hover over peripheries
of my befuddled mind,
radiate
in the recessive
penumbra
of my tranquil heart —

thoughts of loves
long forgotten
momentarily bloom
like purple
crocus petals
on the frigid soil
of weather-beaten
March gardens —

why then
do they disappear
in April.

D. G. Vachal © 2025

Image by Couleur @Pixabay

Autumn in the Gloaming

Autumn
in the long platinum
light of the gloaming
when pearls of time arrive and depart
with the wind-swept leaves —

I feel your nearness
your gazing eyes are falling stars
from the ebony sky,
your tender voice rustles the fern fronds
as you call my name —

tell me,
have I spoken your name with tenderness
at suspended moments
before the turning of a hundred seasons —

beyond the ocean tides of forgetting
have you come back to remember
what I have already forgotten —

Autumn in the gloaming,
mottled colors
cloaked in the deep purple mist
of my remembrances.

D. G. Vachal © 2024

Image by James Wheeler @ Pixabay

My Father and the Jasmine Flowers

My Father and the Jasmine Flowers

street waifs
stringing white flowers
into long, fragrant necklaces,
plucked them from the sky
shook them from the tall green bushes
until they fell like rain upon the grass —-
 
jasmine necklaces sold
for devout señoras to wear
at Flores de Mayo processions
five centavos for all that work,
three
if señoras haggled long enough —-

were you one of the little ones
hands baked by the sun,
wide-eyed,
barefoot,
hungry?

how time comes and leaves
so swiftly
as in half a breath,
as in a hurried dream,
and for whatever
reason there may have been
I came to be —-

older folks would tell me
you walked miles to school,
no centavos for a ride,
and your classmates laughed and sneered
as they rode the bus and passed you by,
you walked on
carrying your dreams 
in your heart.

how time comes and leaves
so swiftly
as in half a breath,
as in a hurried dream,
and you are gone —-

tonight
as I recall the tales of folks
from long ago
I drench my pillow
with the fragrant tears
of white jasmine flowers
through the midnight hours,
into the break of dawn.

D. G. Vachal © 2024

Image by Oom Endro @ Pixabay