New York Harbor, One September


I first published this poem in 2012, remembering a sail into New York Harbor only days after September 11, 2001—the altered skyline, the smoke upon the water, and the journey back toward home.

New York Harbor, One September

… a September memory, 2001

September comes
with its whimsical wind,
and the bittern��s barbaric yawp
echoes across the creek,
a snowfall of seagulls perch
upon the jetty,
watch
as we hoist our sails
at the mouth of the bay —

the sloop floats like paper
blown
by a little boy’s breath,
past inlet coves and marinas:
we reach the Harbor,
the sun’s golden glint turns to rust,
the air is clothed
with subtle shrouds of grey
for weeping —

far off into the distance the skyline
is a ghastly dream,
toothless
of two towers,
and the salt air mingles with smoke
and burning steel,
ashened mortar,
the  putrescence
of flesh and flowers —

we turn around,
maneuver the wind,
the charts and tides,
to reach our own secluded harbor,
cradled by the arms of moonlight—
we throw down the anchor,
fall asleep under a cupola
of infinite constellations.

by D. G. Vachal. © 2012

*** photography by slgckg @Flickr Commons

“Treasures in the Morning”

Anita Martinz @ Wikimedia Commons

Cold tentacles
hold on
to burgeoning branches
beneath the April sun:
yellow butterflies alight
upon celadon lapels
of  petal-packed corollas —

Skies are cyan, crystal-clear,
embossed with goose
down pillows
soaked
in alabaster dreams —

There are treasures in the morning,
this platinum morning:
emerald and gold
glimmer
over infantile leaves
of oak and elm —
ruby and sapphire,
topaz, turquoise and amethyst
sparkle
in the tranquil blooming
of the promised flowers.

by D. G. Vachal © 2013

*** Photograph by Anita Martinz @ Wikimedia Commons

Originally posted 2013-04-04 15:38:42.

“The Warmth of Scarlet Oceans”

KONICA MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERAThe Warmth of Scarlet Oceans

Let the gelid evening thaw
in the warmth of scarlet oceans
fathomless
beneath my skin,
for I hold in my tiny hands
a chalice
of burgundy wine,
and the spicéd fragrance of roses
coalesces
with the golden tallow of candles
effulgent
in their stalwart flames —

I am not afraid
of the cold.

by D. G. Vachal © 2013

Image:  Wikimedia Commons

Originally posted 2013-02-23 12:27:08.

“The Edge of Bloom”

Rookery at John Street Wikimedia Commons 2
The Edge of Bloom

Almost, at this moment:
no matter how feeble the light
upon the trees,
despite this night benumbed,
there are buds that tiptoe
at the pinnacle of jagged cliffs,
careening
at the edge
of bloom —

this miracle,
this dance of beauty
cannot be halted,
cannot be restrained.

by D. G. Vachal © 2013

*** Image by Wikimedia Commons

Originally posted 2013-02-19 20:24:40.