Vincent Lowry's Blog, page 5
August 11, 2014
August 6, 2014
Song Lyrics - Draw Near
"Draw Near"
Where are you
Soul of my life
Beating of my core
Find me evermore
Sweep the noise
Dividing our desire
Become whole in passion
A love without ration
(Chorus)
Draw near
Draw now
Draw me
Draw forever
I give all
For this feeling without equal
For this embrace of great heights
Floating among our city lights
In your presence
Faces fade as if unreal
Leaving one true pair
The eyes that draw me near
(Chorus)
Draw near
Draw now
Draw me
Draw forever
(Repeat Chorus)
(c) 2014 by Vincent Lowry
Where are you
Soul of my life
Beating of my core
Find me evermore
Sweep the noise
Dividing our desire
Become whole in passion
A love without ration
(Chorus)
Draw near
Draw now
Draw me
Draw forever
I give all
For this feeling without equal
For this embrace of great heights
Floating among our city lights
In your presence
Faces fade as if unreal
Leaving one true pair
The eyes that draw me near
(Chorus)
Draw near
Draw now
Draw me
Draw forever
(Repeat Chorus)
(c) 2014 by Vincent Lowry
July 31, 2014
Selfie
Maybe our hope is to capture
that likeness which eludes us,
that core of self which sails on boats
too distant on the horizon to
know if it they are coming ashore
or drifting farther into the void.
We could easily say it's the ace
in an unfair hand that an ex-lover dealt to us,
an unexpected trump card
laid on a timeline table
next to a bronzed queen sipping margaritas
with her court of muscles
on a beach too pristine for the eye to absorb.
Perhaps it's just our recognition of mortality,
of knowing that moments will thaw and spoil
unless we freeze them on our phones
and pack them in airtight digital containers
too small to store our aging organs,
our gravity-bent bones.
Is this our immortality?
A puckered face in the driver's seat
of a new convertible?
An awkward pose beside a friend
with whom we lost touch thousands
of updates ago?
Will the graduating class of 2150 really want to
see so many pictures of the dead?
(c) 2014 by Vincent Lowry
that likeness which eludes us,
that core of self which sails on boats
too distant on the horizon to
know if it they are coming ashore
or drifting farther into the void.
We could easily say it's the ace
in an unfair hand that an ex-lover dealt to us,
an unexpected trump card
laid on a timeline table
next to a bronzed queen sipping margaritas
with her court of muscles
on a beach too pristine for the eye to absorb.
Perhaps it's just our recognition of mortality,
of knowing that moments will thaw and spoil
unless we freeze them on our phones
and pack them in airtight digital containers
too small to store our aging organs,
our gravity-bent bones.
Is this our immortality?
A puckered face in the driver's seat
of a new convertible?
An awkward pose beside a friend
with whom we lost touch thousands
of updates ago?
Will the graduating class of 2150 really want to
see so many pictures of the dead?
(c) 2014 by Vincent Lowry
July 23, 2014
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
May 16, 2014
Sparklers in Virginia
If only these rose petals down
this aisle weren't so far away.
If only this love sealed before us
on an impossibly green hill
promised the blossoming of something vernal and unpredictable for all hearts seeking to fly.
A gray Virginian sky looks down
on children transfixed by a fountain's magic.
Photographers surround the jocular youth, freezing the moment for a
time when the day is a book of
memories.
Night falls.
Music fills the reception
as candles flicker off faces
not seen in seasons.
A toddler finds his way to the
dance floor, breaking the ice for the adults who aren't as brave
with their feet and hips.
Soon moves without a name
pour from bodies without a care,
releasing the worries of yesterday and tomorrow.
Sparks from sparklers rain down on the bride and groom as they duck and thread between family and friends.
A new love soars off into the evening.
I think the fallen soldiers of Gettysburg, buried just hours from this hill, fought for a peace like this.
I think their valiant hearts during the darkest final hours wanted to fly
in this sort of grand freedom.
I think they would have loved to see their children play in that fountain, or tested their shoes on that dance floor, or held that raining firework high for their newly married hosts.
And there's no doubt Lincoln would have held the sparkler too.
Perhaps he would have lifted it higher than the rest of us given his height advantage and the grand triumph of the dream now realized before his eyes: a simple wedding in a state at truce,
a snapshot of a democracy with a new birth of freedom many generations in the making.
We are the result of their struggle,
of their vision of an America rededicated to its original promise.
If love is the greatest power,
then a moment committed to it seems the finest example of their honorable lives and what they created for ours.
We invite them to have a look at the beauty they forged.
We request their presence at our
sacred gathering made possible
by their sacrifice.
Let the lights we hold together
never extinguish,
shining the path of rebirth for a union made whole.
(c) 2014 by Vincent Lowry
this aisle weren't so far away.
If only this love sealed before us
on an impossibly green hill
promised the blossoming of something vernal and unpredictable for all hearts seeking to fly.
A gray Virginian sky looks down
on children transfixed by a fountain's magic.
Photographers surround the jocular youth, freezing the moment for a
time when the day is a book of
memories.
Night falls.
Music fills the reception
as candles flicker off faces
not seen in seasons.
A toddler finds his way to the
dance floor, breaking the ice for the adults who aren't as brave
with their feet and hips.
Soon moves without a name
pour from bodies without a care,
releasing the worries of yesterday and tomorrow.
Sparks from sparklers rain down on the bride and groom as they duck and thread between family and friends.
A new love soars off into the evening.
I think the fallen soldiers of Gettysburg, buried just hours from this hill, fought for a peace like this.
I think their valiant hearts during the darkest final hours wanted to fly
in this sort of grand freedom.
I think they would have loved to see their children play in that fountain, or tested their shoes on that dance floor, or held that raining firework high for their newly married hosts.
And there's no doubt Lincoln would have held the sparkler too.
Perhaps he would have lifted it higher than the rest of us given his height advantage and the grand triumph of the dream now realized before his eyes: a simple wedding in a state at truce,
a snapshot of a democracy with a new birth of freedom many generations in the making.
We are the result of their struggle,
of their vision of an America rededicated to its original promise.
If love is the greatest power,
then a moment committed to it seems the finest example of their honorable lives and what they created for ours.
We invite them to have a look at the beauty they forged.
We request their presence at our
sacred gathering made possible
by their sacrifice.
Let the lights we hold together
never extinguish,
shining the path of rebirth for a union made whole.
(c) 2014 by Vincent Lowry
April 30, 2014
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
March 23, 2014
Great Heights
These feet once were in harmony
with the earth in all its varied forms,
the soles splashing in jubilation
in a drenched city,
the toes waking to hardwood
and cold tile upon every new sun.
Every step was predictable.
Every path was in focus.
But a kiss snuck in,
followed by unsolicited smiles
and eyes so radiant they demanded
unrivaled attention and worship.
Now, at such great heights,
these heels have no footing,
swimming in clouds,
stretching to find ground
in a world with only skies.
The mind fears the drop from here.
It wonders if a lover's lips and eyes will
keep the body forever suspended,
or if a fall is inevitable,
another discarded fool with burned wings.
Committed to the flight,
the heart does not consider such questions.
Its focus is not on the future,
but the drunkenness of the present,
the addiction of being swept from the printed path.
(C) 2014 by Vincent Lowry
with the earth in all its varied forms,
the soles splashing in jubilation
in a drenched city,
the toes waking to hardwood
and cold tile upon every new sun.
Every step was predictable.
Every path was in focus.
But a kiss snuck in,
followed by unsolicited smiles
and eyes so radiant they demanded
unrivaled attention and worship.
Now, at such great heights,
these heels have no footing,
swimming in clouds,
stretching to find ground
in a world with only skies.
The mind fears the drop from here.
It wonders if a lover's lips and eyes will
keep the body forever suspended,
or if a fall is inevitable,
another discarded fool with burned wings.
Committed to the flight,
the heart does not consider such questions.
Its focus is not on the future,
but the drunkenness of the present,
the addiction of being swept from the printed path.
(C) 2014 by Vincent Lowry
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
March 5, 2014
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.*
January 31, 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
