Vincent Lowry's Blog, page 8

Somewhere near
missiles are exploding on
a testing ground west
of where I sit.

That's not to say
it is happening at this very
moment, because I can neither hear
nor see the experiments

from the white dune
upon which I'm perched.
Only a December wind,
icy as the pressing mountains,

fills my ears,
and as for my eyes,
a playful sun occupies them,
teasing the perfect

picture I want to capture.
Sitting on this sandy, carved
marvel, I find complete
peace and harmony.

Not a soul disturbs the horizon.
It's purity is heighten by
a year that's ending and beginning.
What a circle to behold.


(c) 2013 by Vincent Lowry

It was nothing but bottomless sorrow
when the news came
from a town that could have been
our own.

We tried to make sense
out of the darkness that descended the innocent,
the tenderest of youth,
the purest of heart.

But madness does not leave
answers in its wake.
Its swift destruction
and resulting anguish

is all we know with certainty.
We know it is evil,
in its truest form,
and our response

is to reach out to the ones we
hold dear and bring them closer,
channeling the light passed to us
by those who were taken away.

Love will triumph
Love will triumph


(c) 2012 by Vincent Lowry

We took an afternoon walk together
the weekend after we gave thanks,
the autumn foliage drifting down
like a rainbow of giant snowflakes
from the shedding maples.

Some moments you asked me to stop
and recognize the picture in your hand,
a golden blossom as small as a quarter,
or one of fall’s crimson gifts,
a fiery leaf that colored our paved trail.

It wasn’t long before I turned
the eye of the camera on us,
father and son,
hand in hand,
just our shadows.

The most striking part of that picture
is our gaze, and I hope it always remains
that way as more seasons drift past us:
you looking up at me,
no matter how tall your shadow grows.




Poem and photo (c) 2012 by Vincent Lowry

This poem is to appease the critic,
to sail across his arcane waters
as his lyrical neurosis fills my sails
with his narcissistic jabbering.

Given a choice,
I’d rather tether this vessel
to the dock of candor and simplicity
than to continue this voyage of stanzas

for the supposed erudite Captain and scholar.
I stage my mutiny
knowing many obsequious pupils of his teachings
wait ashore, decrying the rebellion.

Perhaps the nadir will come
when I dash into the nearby meadow,
seeing the once beautiful clear and vibrant words,
now trampled because of a Captain’s pride, a scholar’s ego.

You could say time is nothing more
than just the constant circling of
hands on a clock,
a way for us to measure the day
as it dips in and out of light.

But it’s much more than that, isn’t it?
Its hold on our lives and thoughts
is as strong and relentless as the vacuum of gravity.
You need only to ask yourself how often
you’ve glanced at the hour today,

and whether that result made you anxious
about your late arrival,
or ecstatic about the flight
returning a friend from a distant place
remembered in months or years.

Its force stirs instant emotions,
transforming pictures into images of lost
love and youth,
and vacant houses
into symbols of yesterday’s lives and dreams.

It thrusts us into our world,
first aging the universe 13 billion years,
then ushers us out, bent and withered,
after barely eighty trips
around our own aged star.

And what precisely is our hold on it?
With our creams, our dyes, our surgeries,
our toys, our distractions?
Do we have a firm handle on time’s reins,
pulling it in with our meticulous measurements of the present,

counting the seconds and minutes with haughty confidence,
yet still feeling the reins slip away
as we remain in ignorance about its ancient beginning,
its unforeseeable future,
and our mysterious and brief place riding in its saddle.

By Vincent Lowry - October 18, 2012 - 1:07:21 PM

When the pain
lingers in your heart’s core
and every ill memory
channels through the
web of your veins,

spreading the ache
like a drop of poison
into a clear chalice,
know that forgiveness
will knock on your door.

It is an unwanted visitor,
a salesman at the worst hour,
sporting a plaid suit and plastic smile,
and repeating lines you’ve
already heard and ignored.

You may wave him off
or curse at his persistence,
but the knocks will continue
upon every new sun,
the sound echoing

between your ears
until you face
the wrong that weighs
on your spirit.
Absolve your transgressor

and begin anew
with the journey that awaits.
Remember that vengeance is a detour,
callousness a dead-end,
and the street marked love is the path best taken.


(c) 2012 by Vincent Lowry

Down a vacant road,
closing a day long since expired,
a full moon brings forth your voice.

It was in the form of a song,
one I never particularly cared for,
but you often repeated it

while you rinsed shampoo
from your locks,
or drained grease from the skillet.

Why is it that a tune can
bring forth the other memories
not associated with it?

The flower upon the pillowcase in Hawaii.
The hiking trip to Yosemite,
where the trail forked forever

and demanded every ounce
out of every muscle
before we could relish the cool

cascade of a waterfall from Poseidon.
I think I'll change this station
so the next song can bury the past

and summon a memory that belongs in the
here and now. Perhaps it will take me
to the trip I had just yesterday,

the one where I heard that country banjo
while eating turkey at a deli,
and the music flew me off to

Santa Fe,
where you were floating in my arms,
dancing and in love.


(c) 2012 by Vincent Lowry

I suppose it’s a strange thing
to say I miss the smell of the streetcar
brakes during those late afternoon strolls
down St. Charles, the Victorian mansions
pressing against trees laced with
beads of Mardi Gras past.

The odor wasn’t particularly pleasant,
but neither was the heavy heat
during those sluggish August months,
a memory that now summons
pleasurable images of strawberry daiquiris
dripping icy condensation between my fingers
while barges inch down Mark Twain’s muse.

And if I follow my nose,
I will surely find a mountain of crawfish, corn,
and red potatoes atop a checkered table,
frosted mugs of Abita and Dixie standing guard
at either side of the feast.

I choose to finish this poem as that aroma
wafts through my mind,
firmly transporting my heart back
to The Big Easy,
the city where the purest love
bested a woman named Katrina.

It's like a late afternoon
Amble alongside the coast,
The clouds billowing orange and purple

In the Sun's fading rays,
The ocean spreading out over
An endless horizon like a rippled mirror,

Marking the passage of time with
Each touch upon the shore.
Or I could turn to Taos Mountain,

Where a storm of stars press down
Upon one's gaze like a jealous lover
Demanding the attention of her mate,

Her dress flowing with a thousand galaxies
As she swirls across the ballroom of the universe.
Perhaps it's here in this very garden,

Smaller but no less striking:
The golden grape beaded with rain
So pure it seems wrong to touch it

And destroy nature's masterpiece;
The white Callie Lilly that greets each
Day with an open embrace,

Silently whispering to savor each second
Upon this mortal land
As if it were the only heaven we'd see.

Link your hand with mine
And let my words dissolve in the presence
Of your beauty.

As a poet,
I bow in homage when bested:
There really is no comparison.


(c) 2012 by Vincent Lowry

Once upon a time
Strangers on the street
Would tip their hats
To ladies and say

Good day or just ma'am
Or simply form crescents with their
Lips to show their respect.
And not long ago

A lunch or dinner
Meant conversation,
A meeting of the eyes,
A genuine interest in another's day.

But technology brought
Too many people
To the table,
And who would want to greet a stranger

When a friend was just a "send" away,
The text soaring at the speed of light
To find its eventual home
In someone's pocket or purse,

Or when the next advance comes out,
Right in that person's head,
Beamed there like magic.
And yet here I am, absorbed like the rest,

Writing this poem on my iPad
While my son gets a haircut
From a woman
I failed to acknowledge properly.

(c) 2012 by Vincent Lowry