Tag: Reflections

November the Penultimate


November the Penultimate

Never was a month so motley in its days:
November, penultimate month
of a year that frames the seasons,
when leaves in early days
turn to brightest garnet,
blazing topaz,
illuminated gold —

the latter days arrive
with the fire of the winds,
and the burning leaves take the plunge
from infernal towers of the branches
to the burial grounds of a gun-
metal, brumal earth —

November, November,
calves ache from the marathon,
hearts pound the door
to another December

when holly berries huddle upon the petals
of the soft-spoken snow,
and the fallen leaves breathe again
at the sound of the carols of the children,
the children rejoicing.

D. G. Vachal © 2013

Photography Credit: November’s Decline by Bucaneve

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

Emeralds and Sand


Emeralds and Sand

Upon the sand will I not build my house
for when rains descend and floods overflow,
the winds will howl and beat upon its walls
and it will crumble, great will be its fall

I need no chandeliers, nor porcelain
china, hand-painted with silver and gold,
no dinner dainties with a fattened ox,
content am I to dine on herbs with love.

I seek a shelter strong with warmth and light
where rains and winds and floods can’t topple down
and love burns bright in apple wood hearth fires
and nightingale songs fill the evening air —-

Upon solid rock will I build my house,
there will I find emeralds and rubies.

D. G. Vachal © 2024

Teach Me to Number My Days

Teach Me to Number My Days

Teach me to number my days
the way You number
the hairs on my head,
the way You are mindful
of petals and sparrows
as they fall with the leaves
in the mist of autumn rain —

was it only this morning
when my hair was in pigtails,
as I dressed my dolls
in pink dresses,
dreamt of a fairytale prince 
upon a white stallion
awaiting to take me to a castle
hidden in emerald forests —

towards noon
when I felt butterflies 
fluttering in clandestine chambers 
of my youthful heart,
I met my first love
and time was suspended,
drowned in ivory clouds
and endless blue oceans —

i can still feel the afternoon warmth
when the children came
and their laughter mingled
with the melody of songbirds,
the hum of restless cicadas —

at sunset my love and I
rowed the silent rivers,
built a bonfire upon the sand,
held each other’s hand
for warmth —

and now at twilight
wrapped in the lavender glow,
i treasure the dwindling vestiges
of tender moments,
the faint beloved
song that will remain
when evening falls.

O teach me to number my days.

D. G. Vachal @ 2024

Image by Liuksena @ Pixabay

Warmth of July

Warmth of July

At dusk
while fireflies glow like woven
golden threads upon a cloak
of imperceptible periwinkle,
honeysuckle
intermingles with magnolia
and lavender fragrances —

frogs croak,
intoxicated by beauty
of lotus white blossoms,
join the orchestra of children’s laughter
as barefoot feet
tiptoe
upon crust of earth
and teeming grass —

warmth of July
when for a season’s moment
all is green and ardent
under the ancient sun.

D. G. Vachal © 2023

Photography by Felix Mittermeier