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.
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
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
The days ride the chariot of the whirlwind:
tomorrow’s sun is yet to be appointed —
you hold this moment’s gold, this second’s gem.
Today is bread that feeds your hunger,
strength for constricted hands
that throb to open to those in need,
(always, there are those in need)
bestow kindness even to those unkind.
Give, give of this bread,
this bread of today,
each broken crumb of every fleeting second,
scatter with abandon to reach
the hungry mouths,
even the birds of the air,
the beasts of the field —
As you give of your daily bread,
verily you will be fed.
D. G. Vachal © 2014
lilies, sparrows and grass 