Tag: Writing

Unexpected Rain

Unexpected Rain

I straddle behind you
on the motorcycle
the sun tans our faces,
your back rests content
with my steady warmth —

we wander
through little known byways
where roads are rough
and vines overgrow their bounds,
and we meander with butterflies
across meadows of wildflowers

then suddenly
the sky breaks open,
pours rain by the buckets,
as wind and water pelt our faces
and little streams
flood our pathways —

I close my eyes,
hold you close,
in a little while
you bring us to a tavern
decked with rain-soaked
begonias:
we step inside,
into laughter and song.

D. G. Vachal ©2025

Image from pixabay

Polonaise in A-Flat Major, Op. 53

Polonaise in A-Flat Major​, Op. 53
​
The last gold of evening​
lingered ​
upon the piano keys​
after the music ​
had already ended​—
​
I come back to the old piano​
my mother used to play​
her etudes and concertos,​
the ivory keys​
yellowed by time—​
​
suddenly I hear ​
the ecstatic pounding​
of Chopin’s Polonaise ​
in A-Flat Major—​
​
my mother’s hands​
striking the old piano​
long after evening​
had darkened
​
D. G. Vachal © 2026​

Accompanying image created with AI assistance
​

In the Candlelight

In the Candlelight​
​
the white curtains​
lifted once​
in the evening wind,​
settled​
like a thought​
unspoken​
​
a candle flame—
scents of gardenia,​
magnolia,​
Spanish moss​
drift through the room​
​
a voice
deep and tonal​
softly calls my name​
​
barefoot I run ​
across the bedroom’s​
mahogany floor,​
grasp​
brass handles—​
​
the door opens wide—​
​
your eyes​
in the candlelight​
​
D. G. Vachal © 2026​

Image by Melanie H.H. @pixabay

The Light by the Window

The Light by the Window​
​
the doorknob felt cold​
you stood there​
your eyes—​
I could not enter them​
​
only silence​
​
I waited​
for your voice​
to call me back​
​
only silence​
​
I stepped into the night​
​
the light by the window​
flickered
blocked by your shadow​


D. G. Vachal ©2026

Love’s Return

Love’s Return

thaw—
chameleon-clad hylas
swarm the moss-green ponds
and buds of water lilies
arise from stalks
among the mottled pads—

I thought you were gone,
buried under hills of snow—

now you return

in the low hum of bees,
the soft whisper
of butterfly wings

I feel you near
in the warmth—

yet I somehow know
you have always been
with me in the cold.

— D. G. Vachal 2026

Image: Seerosen (1915) by Claude Monet