Mottled colors flutter
like butterflies,
await
the pristine white
canopies —
Wind-parched leaves
mantle the oak-brown
soil with topaz and jasper
above the dormant seeds
of wilted wildflowers —
Hearken to horse-hoof
raindrops,
the muffled fracture
of petioles letting go
at the eleventh hour
when all the coins of time
are spent
and the egrets of winter
alight
upon the emerald cedar
branches.
D. G. Vachal © 2015
Photo credit: Igor Burdin
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 poet’s voice warbles
where plaintive cellos echo
from vine to hanging vine
in rain-
drenched equatorial jungles —
trills mid-air with the sparrows,
traverses
clandestine recesses,
myriads of breadcrumb
ant trails,
rocky mountain ridges
of wind-sculptured silence —
The poet’s hand gathers
the orchard fruit promise
birthed at nighttime
from fragrant white blossoms —
The poet’s feet dance
somewhere in a warmer province
tango
across a million grains of sand
aglow with the colors
of the dawning sun.
by D. G. Vachal © 2015
Image Credit: Wikimedia Commons, “Equatorial Jungle” by Henri Rousseau. This is a faithful photographic reproduction of an original two-dimensional work of art. The work of art itself is in the public domain for the following reason: This work is in the public domain in the United States, and those countries with a copyright term of life of the author plus 100 years or less.
Let not the words of my silence
engulf you with thoughts
that I am gone —
I am here
Despite the absence
of the warmth of my palms
upon your face
I am here —
Though my song is only
palpable in the coolness
of the summer breeze,
caught in the scent
of flowering meadows
I am here
Through the stealthy moments
while the verdant
leaves turn
from emerald to garnet,
topaz to platinum,
silver to earthen dust —
I am here,
I am always here.
by D. G. Vachal © 2014
Photography by Valery Chichkin – “At the End of the Day”
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
lilies, sparrows and grass 