Vincent Lowry's Blog - Posts Tagged "poetry"

This is a poem that appeared years ago on a site for Morro Bay. I wrote it after visiting the quaint California town.

Morro Rock

Beneath a blue dome, above an azure sea
A volcanic prodigy stands proudly to the heavens
Caressed by the tide, encircled by a cloud of feathered hunters
Nature’s landmark beckons a sojourn for all sea-drained travelers
Its base, a dozen vessels strong; its peak, a half-score of stacked masts
Those at shore stand and marvel
The brilliance of the bay
The uncompromising grandeur and enchantment of Morro Rock

Forgetting Another's Warmth

Unexpected pain
Sweeps in like an icy breath
On the harshest winter
Night

It rushes through the rooms of the body
A thief racing with indifference
Expelling all heat
Extinguishing the soul’s fire

The true agony comes in its aftermath
When memories resurface
In every corner
Through every door
The constant ghost of what was lost

Imprisoned by thoughts
The grains of time
Bleed as if seconds were hours
Bottling the ache
Locking the darkness

Familiar voices
Whisper love’s ancient adage:
The heart will heal
All things pass

But when?
But how do you let go?
How do you forget another’s warmth?

[Forgetting Another's Warmth (C) 2010 Vincent Lowry:]

Dust these wings
Shed this old skin
Awaken and rise
For the day gives birth to a new sun

Gather the pains
Worries
Heartaches
And throw them in yesterday's constellation

A different path beckons
Paved by brighter stones
Domed by bluer skies
Carved through greener fields

Forget and learn anew
Erase that which seems etched in stone

For long is the journey of living
But short is the life

(Short is the Life (C) 2010 by Vincent Lowry)

For July, I thought I'd post this relaxing piece called "Supine." In 2007, it was the selected winner in a small poetry contest (Vi Olsen Memorial). It's hard to believe that I wrote it by jotting down one word a day.
___

Supine

Rays spill from behind drained thunderclouds

Like golden cones slicing a blue dome,
The afternoon sun bathes my blood and lightens my load

Cradled in the web of a hammock,
I retire my thoughts on nature's hook and shed the day's responsibilities

July dreams soon sweep over me like a welcoming breeze,
Carrying me afar,
To a land where these summer moments never perish

Supine (c) 2010 Vincent Lowry

Here's another poem I recently completed called Escape.
-Vince

Escape

It’s time
Take that which is needed
Abandon the rest
Soar

The destination?
A paradise where the stars
Press against the glassy water,
A reflection of the past colliding with
The present

The wind,
An ocean’s sigh,
Weaves through the palms
Carrying the scent of renewal:
A day made
A day in the making

Hidden in the crisp
Blackness,
A gull continues to hunt,
Its existence marked only
By its softened cry
Fighting against
The eternal chorus of waves

The touch of a warm hand,
Fingers threaded in union,
Drowns time’s flow—
Filling the soul with
A ripeness that cannot be
Soured
A completeness that cannot be
Diminished

For in this escape
All is revealed
While all is hidden

And dreams reign supreme


Escape (c) 2010 by Vincent Lowry

Two thousand songs
Sit in my pocket,
Waiting for me to

Select one and hit play.
I find myself amazed at
The technology that can

Squeeze the voices of countless
Musical artists into a
Simple device the size of a credit card.

I wonder what my grandparents
Would think of such technology?
Perhaps they’d call it black magic,

A thing best left untouched and
Forgotten or risk bodily harm.
But, by the same token, I wonder

What I will think of tomorrow’s
New gadget, when they implant all
These voices inside my head?

Naps

After watching my toddler’s eyes close—
drifting off to the dreamland of toys,
stuffed animals, and illustrated books—

I couldn’t help but ponder the bliss
in taking regular afternoon naps.
Why do we, adults, skip them?

How often, with our bellies full,
in the heart and heat of the day,
have we longed to dive into the pool of sleep

for just a simple lap?
It seems just as necessary to rinse
off the stress of the morning—

calls, emails, meetings—
as it does to peel away the day’s
burdensome layers at night.

Why do we choose to cut the tree of
sluggishness and distraction with
a sledgehammer?

We could use the swift ax of rest,
traveling away for a moment,
but always returning with more wood in hand.

(c) 2010 by Vincent Lowry

Girl on the Street

A coworker told
me a story today about
a girl he saw on the street.

She was twenty years of
age at most, and cowering
from a police officer

who was trying to assist
her up off the sidewalk.
She had a fear in her eyes,

this coworker told me,
that revealed the depths to
which her life had fallen.

Now, hours after this story,
I find myself thinking of this young
woman again.

I picture her eyes, and officer
reaching down, and the people surrounding
them with a spark of alarm in their own stares.

I wonder if something dreadful happened
recently to make her so frightened? Or if it was a building
problem—an addiction, perhaps.

I look outside the office window and see a different street,
in a different time,
and no girl.

© 2010 by Vincent Lowry

If I could slip out of this skin
And don the unblemished features of a kid long since vanished
To the carnival I would fly

I’ll paint this fantasy on an autumn day
Where an orange sun sleeps on the western horizon
Golden leaves hide the sidewalks
And the air carries the lingering fragrance of a departed afternoon shower

The entrance stands before me
Magical
A Ferris wheel slicing that rusty sun
A distant barker shouting the hour’s winner
The scent of rain suddenly sweetened and buttered

With a lighter pocket
But a stamp on the back of my hand marking my entrance
A rush of choices flood my mind:
Haunted house? Roller coaster? Ring toss?

I let my feet do the deciding
Worn sneakers pressing against sawdust and dirt
Simply walking in the organized chaos

Do you see it?
The swirl of blue cotton candy
The fortune teller peering through the cloudy window
The man with the top hat striding on stilts

Do you hear it?
“Come one, come all, the greatest show you’ve…”
“Ladies and gentlemen, step right up and…”
“That’s right, people. The heaviest man on the face…”

Do you feel it?
The warmth exhaling out of the aerobatics tent
The vibrating ground
The energy of a thousand racing hearts

As a child we experience
But don’t appreciate these moments
Of beauty and magic

It’s only by peering
Back through time’s tunnel
As an adult
That the lens is cleaned

We understand and cherish
But the experiencing part is long done

(c) 2010 by Vincent Lowry

The following poem is actually a true story that happened to me while visiting New York one month before 9/11. I dedicate it in memory of those who weren't as fortunate as me and my friend on that dark day.

-Vince


Windows on the World

It’s evening on August 11th, 2001,
and I’m on vacation in

New York City.

A friend who works in Manhattan
invites me to the

World Trade Center.

I meet up with him and take
the ear-popping rise

106 floors.

I step into a restaurant
and grab a drink at a place called

The Greatest Bar on Earth.

There’s music,
laughter,

people.

I follow my friend to one side of
the building to experience why they call this

Windows on the World.

I press my hands flat against the
thick glass pane and lower my gaze

to the illuminated city that flows below us.

My heart races from the view,
from the striking thought of my perch

on this remarkable creation of steel and glass.

I turn to my companion and talk about
the past and present,

two Americans reconnecting.

More music,
laughter,

people joining our paradise in the sky.

Soon a second drink is handed to me
and my eyes return to the view,

not looking down now, but across.

I spot a twin building,
soaring above like ours,

The South Tower.

It has an observation deck on the roof,
my friend says,

you can see the entire city from it.

I picture myself atop that symmetrical giant,
staring up as a breeze cools my skin,

seeing only stars for a ceiling.

I turn and face the restaurant,
the bar, the people, and sip my drink

as if this glass heaven

would
always

exist.


(c) 2010 by Vincent Lowry