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
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
Sourland Mountain in July
The asphalt fajita pan
sizzles,
white papal smoke ascends
from black aluminum,
scorches
naked feet,
temperatures climb, calibrated
for the appointed broiling
of flesh —
Sourland Mountain at noonday
in July:
I listen to the psalms of emerald leaves
upon twigs and branches
uplifted in praise,
the songs of the scarlet tanager,
melodious with the orchestra of Monét clouds
in this gated city of chlorophyll,
a uniform green madness —
Though I walk
through the hardness of rocks
and boulders,
I will not take this green
for granted,
I mumble on every single leaf
of fern, weed and tree,
revel
in the uncomfortable warmth,
while the green is teeming
at this very moment
before the gradual accumulated
turnings of the universe,
of sun, moon and stars
awaken
the coldness from its slumber,
before the leaves turn
into empty brown
paper bags
blown by the wind.
by D. G. Vachal © 2013
*** Photography by D. G. Vachal 2013
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
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