Vincent Lowry's Blog - Posts Tagged "2014"
A Sample Poem from Surfing the Seconds
This poem is called The Show, and it's from my book Surfing the Seconds.
I hope you are doing well! :)
-Vincent
The Show
How do you manage your juggling,
the club of work
that shadows the club of vacation?
Do you toss the club of family life
high enough so your hands
get a solid grip on the narrow end of time with friends?
Where do you place the environment,
as it circles in an uncertain azure sky,
when you also have to catch the club of consumption?
Is the balancing act just an illusion,
quick movements meant to blur
the true numbers in your show?
Was the club of love long ago discarded
because it made you bend or twist
in ways unwanted?
Isn't that death I see hidden behind the stage curtain, out of sight of the audience who watch and practice with pins and balls?
And most importantly, at the show's end,
are all the tricks and secrets revealed,
including the reason behind the often dropped club: life?
(c) 2014 by Vincent Lowry
I hope you are doing well! :)
-Vincent
The Show
How do you manage your juggling,
the club of work
that shadows the club of vacation?
Do you toss the club of family life
high enough so your hands
get a solid grip on the narrow end of time with friends?
Where do you place the environment,
as it circles in an uncertain azure sky,
when you also have to catch the club of consumption?
Is the balancing act just an illusion,
quick movements meant to blur
the true numbers in your show?
Was the club of love long ago discarded
because it made you bend or twist
in ways unwanted?
Isn't that death I see hidden behind the stage curtain, out of sight of the audience who watch and practice with pins and balls?
And most importantly, at the show's end,
are all the tricks and secrets revealed,
including the reason behind the often dropped club: life?
(c) 2014 by Vincent Lowry
Positive Reviews for Surfing the Seconds!
I'm pleased to share the following independent review for Surfing the Seconds.
By reader Andrea Taylor:
When reading this beautiful volume of poetry I found myself looking into my own soul in the most gracious way. I was touched by a deeper understanding pulling me in a direction that felt so natural and life affirming.
The poet makes one want to surrender to the waves of memory, and to one's senses. The soul is touched with a brush of light that reaches into the heart and mind leaving impressions that will never fade. There are so many beautifully crafted verses in these pages that it is difficult to choose just one to share. Read and know you will feel an ache and a longing to make a return journey to the places you will visit while "Surfing the Seconds."
Gift Your Love
Do not concern yourself with
what you will get back.
Reach inside and find
the love you were meant to
wrap in a perfect bow and take joy
in seeing others open it.
*Read more of this beautifully crafted piece on p.46.*
By reader Andrea Taylor:
When reading this beautiful volume of poetry I found myself looking into my own soul in the most gracious way. I was touched by a deeper understanding pulling me in a direction that felt so natural and life affirming.
The poet makes one want to surrender to the waves of memory, and to one's senses. The soul is touched with a brush of light that reaches into the heart and mind leaving impressions that will never fade. There are so many beautifully crafted verses in these pages that it is difficult to choose just one to share. Read and know you will feel an ache and a longing to make a return journey to the places you will visit while "Surfing the Seconds."
Gift Your Love
Do not concern yourself with
what you will get back.
Reach inside and find
the love you were meant to
wrap in a perfect bow and take joy
in seeing others open it.
*Read more of this beautifully crafted piece on p.46.*
Big Bear
If wind through this land carried a voice,
it would speak of the many winters
that layered this escape
under frozen spells.
A word would be said about the forest,
deep white,
comparing tales of adventure with latent misfortune.
And the lake?
Would the gusts spill the
the secret of how the ice hoists the pier,
or how the surrounding homes remain mute in snowy wonder?
To listen is key.
To sit in Earth's chair as her student,
and hold one's tongue to judgment,
and one's eyes in debt.
Let the static of the trees
lull you into a trance
and fill your shell
with truths unseen.
Nature shall cleanse
all subjects that arrive at her door,
washing not feet,
but the soul's inner heart.
(C) 2014 by Vincent Lowry
it would speak of the many winters
that layered this escape
under frozen spells.
A word would be said about the forest,
deep white,
comparing tales of adventure with latent misfortune.
And the lake?
Would the gusts spill the
the secret of how the ice hoists the pier,
or how the surrounding homes remain mute in snowy wonder?
To listen is key.
To sit in Earth's chair as her student,
and hold one's tongue to judgment,
and one's eyes in debt.
Let the static of the trees
lull you into a trance
and fill your shell
with truths unseen.
Nature shall cleanse
all subjects that arrive at her door,
washing not feet,
but the soul's inner heart.
(C) 2014 by Vincent Lowry
The Gale
The Gale
The poet's bones were unearthed
some twenty thousand years after 2013,
the date his heart became one
with the starry silence, the endless black vacuum.
Watches filled the rib cage,
hour hands pointing every possible direction,
a six o'clock aiming at where the aorta
had once channeled life,
a three o'clock tracing the path
of the now nerveless vertebra.
A femur lay atop a fractured humerus,
both separated in life and critical for survival,
now joined forever as a cross
and serving the world of the departed.
The only surviving words of the poet
bled from a yellow bank receipt:
hand written,
last drops buried in the heart of his skull.
"Unfinished"
What of the ocean song,
the hymn of forgotten tides?
What of the felled trees laid long,
the chasm of their birth one finds?
What of night and lovers embraced bare,
the desiring souls searching truth?
What of this writer's hair made fair,
the yesterdays bought with youth?
What of the stars and worlds beyond reach,
the distant lands forever remained locked?
What of the one world we leech,
the home our actions have mocked?
What of the plans yet to be,
the reign of tomorrow's child?
What of these hands I see,
the unfinished work which has piled?
Oh how this gale tries my spirit.
(C) 2014 by Vincent Lowry
The poet's bones were unearthed
some twenty thousand years after 2013,
the date his heart became one
with the starry silence, the endless black vacuum.
Watches filled the rib cage,
hour hands pointing every possible direction,
a six o'clock aiming at where the aorta
had once channeled life,
a three o'clock tracing the path
of the now nerveless vertebra.
A femur lay atop a fractured humerus,
both separated in life and critical for survival,
now joined forever as a cross
and serving the world of the departed.
The only surviving words of the poet
bled from a yellow bank receipt:
hand written,
last drops buried in the heart of his skull.
"Unfinished"
What of the ocean song,
the hymn of forgotten tides?
What of the felled trees laid long,
the chasm of their birth one finds?
What of night and lovers embraced bare,
the desiring souls searching truth?
What of this writer's hair made fair,
the yesterdays bought with youth?
What of the stars and worlds beyond reach,
the distant lands forever remained locked?
What of the one world we leech,
the home our actions have mocked?
What of the plans yet to be,
the reign of tomorrow's child?
What of these hands I see,
the unfinished work which has piled?
Oh how this gale tries my spirit.
(C) 2014 by Vincent Lowry
When the Ice Returned
I would let the crisp morning air
fill my lungs in relief
when seeing the ice I thought I'd lost
sparkle in glory upon the battlefields
of my nightmare.
I would rise to the new sun
like a child on a birthday,
my thoughts racing far from the grasp
of the frozen shelf
breaking away from her mother
and bleeding into history.
I would skip under a rediscovered sky,
bluest of sea blues,
and toss my worries of an
uncertain tomorrow
into the river of posterity.
I would rake the footprints
shadowing the path of modernization,
content in the trailless path
behind every achievement,
every step of success and advancement.
I would undershoulder this cloaked weight,
piling for years,
bending my spirit like hunched back,
and run in the meadows
of a future abloom with promise.
Will you wake with me?
(c) 2014 by Vincent Lowry
fill my lungs in relief
when seeing the ice I thought I'd lost
sparkle in glory upon the battlefields
of my nightmare.
I would rise to the new sun
like a child on a birthday,
my thoughts racing far from the grasp
of the frozen shelf
breaking away from her mother
and bleeding into history.
I would skip under a rediscovered sky,
bluest of sea blues,
and toss my worries of an
uncertain tomorrow
into the river of posterity.
I would rake the footprints
shadowing the path of modernization,
content in the trailless path
behind every achievement,
every step of success and advancement.
I would undershoulder this cloaked weight,
piling for years,
bending my spirit like hunched back,
and run in the meadows
of a future abloom with promise.
Will you wake with me?
(c) 2014 by Vincent Lowry
