At the end of winter daylight
when lemon passion glows
with the ardor of periwinkle,
at unexpected moments
I remember
a melody long forgotten,
jubilant as a nightingale’s song,
that led my fledgling
heart to soar
towards the blazing stars
once upon the sands of time —
Now, when it matters no more,
I recall the scribbled ink upon the paper,
a voice that called my name,
at twilight’s edge
when my heart beholds the colors,
the warm farewell
of the setting sun.
D. G. Vachal © 2014
Archipelago
Between now and oblivion
lies an archipelago
infinitesimal
as a grain of sand,
expansive as the universe
of my remembrances:
where lost loves wander
stranded,
entangled,
enslaved.
The islands are mine:
the ylang-ylang,
jasmine and hibiscus —
let the florid scents haunt
my shipwrecked loves
as taunting ghosts warble
melodies of our laughter —
let parrots recite my poetry
from parchments drenched
in perfumed
tears.
O Archipelago!
for the leaving
I cannot leave,
for the weeping
I cannot weep —
tidal waves do not
wear you down,
nor the anger
of volcanoes —
you are always there
between now and oblivion.
by D. G. Vachal © 2012
* photograph: Archipel Sulu, Phillipinen by Volker
… an edited version of the original poem written in 2012
Twilight and White Linen
Here we are and time
forsaken
when I found you —
latitudes of faces,
provinces
of eyelids and shoulders,
verdant archipelago
sculptured in sapphire
oceans,
the orbital fruit dangles,
suspended
from its ripening —
Twilight and white linen
stoke the hunger —
I slice zucchini
into cylinders,
slender wedges,
peppers into strips
of scarlet,
toss the cuttings
into volcanic oils of olive,
aromatic sesame —
the meat is warm
for the tasting,
pearls of rice turn amber
from the fragrant
spices —
here we are
and time.
by D. G. Vachal © 2013
*** Image by Rob Espierre
Vault of Memories
Our vault of memories
opens and closes
with clanging sounds,
redefines our dreams,
rudely awakens us
in the midst of deepest
slumbers —
snaps the whip
as we make decisions
in love and business,
directs our hands to wield
or spare the rod
in the discipline
of our children —
it is a vault,
yet much the same as churchyards
where we light candles
and whisper softly
as the tallow accumulates
and we mold the putty
in our hands,
rewrite the scripted scenes,
revisit glorious sunsets,
adorn the porches of summer
with scarlet geraniums —
we contrive perfection
from the past,
yet through this somnolent veil
reality’s briars arise,
the grown-up tears,
the laughter
of childhood —
of catching grasshoppers
and climbing fruit trees,
the dimes earned from chores,
the aplomb gained
from life’s little triumphs —
and for certain
this confidence grows
and is sustaining us:
for from this vault of memories
we draw our water
from the well,
regain our strength,
build our faith,
apply the brilliant brush strokes of the day,
and in the lavender shades of twilight
we chart out and envision
our tomorrows.
By D. G. Vachal © 2012-2013
lilies, sparrows and grass 
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