Vincent Lowry's Blog, page 4
November 1, 2015
Cafe Orleans
Maybe it was the taste
of a Mint Julep
that washed ashore
on the distant coast of a forgotten memory.
Maybe it was the strumming
of a bass guitar,
fast on the heels of a clarinet
that refreshed faces
not seen in seasons.
Two cities became one.
Somehow St. Charles isn't far
from the Mark Twain,
and the smell of hotdogs,
on this autumn afternoon,
fits Cafe Orleans as much
as does for a street named Bourbon.
Painting today:
a wary mother waits with her son,
teenage girls pose for
a series of selfies and then stop smiling,
a father reads a menu aloud
to an adopted son in his arms,
a restaurant manager passes a hand
through the fading remains of his hair,
an elderly couple study store signs,
and a father writes a poem while waiting
for a child who came into the world
9 years to the date.
No need to paint yesterday.
Not anymore.
The ink on that canvas is baked dry.
This is all that matters.
The Mint Julep,
the bass guitar,
the clarinet of now.
(C) 2015 by Vincent Lowry
of a Mint Julep
that washed ashore
on the distant coast of a forgotten memory.
Maybe it was the strumming
of a bass guitar,
fast on the heels of a clarinet
that refreshed faces
not seen in seasons.
Two cities became one.
Somehow St. Charles isn't far
from the Mark Twain,
and the smell of hotdogs,
on this autumn afternoon,
fits Cafe Orleans as much
as does for a street named Bourbon.
Painting today:
a wary mother waits with her son,
teenage girls pose for
a series of selfies and then stop smiling,
a father reads a menu aloud
to an adopted son in his arms,
a restaurant manager passes a hand
through the fading remains of his hair,
an elderly couple study store signs,
and a father writes a poem while waiting
for a child who came into the world
9 years to the date.
No need to paint yesterday.
Not anymore.
The ink on that canvas is baked dry.
This is all that matters.
The Mint Julep,
the bass guitar,
the clarinet of now.
(C) 2015 by Vincent Lowry
October 1, 2015
Golden State Cafe
We shared a mutual amazement
at the line that clogged the entrance
to our café,
the bodies pressed together like
a vibrant snake.
The sun, directly overhead,
made its presence known
as noon rays baked tables, chairs,
and umbrellas in a manner
more befitting of summer than fall.
Like most patrons,
we sought the comfort of cover,
of any shadow that would shield
us from our living star,
a refuge from the heart
of the day.
I had a water with ice.
You passed on tea and coffee.
And there we sat at the back, in shade,
as an ordinary Sunday day in 2015
left another crack in thirsty California.
(c) 2015 by Vincent Lowry
at the line that clogged the entrance
to our café,
the bodies pressed together like
a vibrant snake.
The sun, directly overhead,
made its presence known
as noon rays baked tables, chairs,
and umbrellas in a manner
more befitting of summer than fall.
Like most patrons,
we sought the comfort of cover,
of any shadow that would shield
us from our living star,
a refuge from the heart
of the day.
I had a water with ice.
You passed on tea and coffee.
And there we sat at the back, in shade,
as an ordinary Sunday day in 2015
left another crack in thirsty California.
(c) 2015 by Vincent Lowry
August 30, 2015
For Bob
Wife and two kids.
A quote that he knew
the difference between
a life of importance
and a life of significance.
Some old photos of college days.
New Orleans before Katrina.
Drinks with friends
who remained in touch
or drifted away on life's tide.
Fill me up with love.
I hear the music
and I cannot help but wonder
about the meaning of the loss.
Am I supposed to learn a lesson,
or is the lesson for others?
Sometimes I think I'm reading a book
that's written in a different language,
and I really don't know the story at all.
Wife and two kids.
That's what brings it into focus.
That's what makes me consider the reason
of a life denied its rightful length.
And it forces my mind to corners of the Earth
where pain is ever-present,
where struggle for survival
is far beyond what I can imagine,
and sadly beyond my daily recognition of it.
We lost you this month, friend.
We lost others, too.
Godspeed to those who remain
on this blue miracle in space,
seeking lives of significance.
(c) 2015 by Vincent Lowry
A quote that he knew
the difference between
a life of importance
and a life of significance.
Some old photos of college days.
New Orleans before Katrina.
Drinks with friends
who remained in touch
or drifted away on life's tide.
Fill me up with love.
I hear the music
and I cannot help but wonder
about the meaning of the loss.
Am I supposed to learn a lesson,
or is the lesson for others?
Sometimes I think I'm reading a book
that's written in a different language,
and I really don't know the story at all.
Wife and two kids.
That's what brings it into focus.
That's what makes me consider the reason
of a life denied its rightful length.
And it forces my mind to corners of the Earth
where pain is ever-present,
where struggle for survival
is far beyond what I can imagine,
and sadly beyond my daily recognition of it.
We lost you this month, friend.
We lost others, too.
Godspeed to those who remain
on this blue miracle in space,
seeking lives of significance.
(c) 2015 by Vincent Lowry
August 1, 2015
Poem - Fear
How does it grip you?
Does it tighten your center
like an invisible band,
unrelenting,
unmerciful?
Does it appear at irregular hours,
the master of its own schedule,
a thief of life's sand
when the grains in the glass
are already dwindling?
Does it steal your confidence,
the echoes of encouragement
from those forever dear,
turning the bright light of bravery
to unrecognizable shadows
at all angles of your maternal star?
Trace its roots curled far into your memory,
youth deep,
feeding on time's waters.
See the seed it had once been,
floating on an ill wind,
a feathery umbrella,
so minute and harmless.
Now speak its name,
whatever word you've given it,
pouring a new breeze from your lips
to guide the drifting seed
away from memory's garden.
(c) 2015 by Vincent Lowry
Does it tighten your center
like an invisible band,
unrelenting,
unmerciful?
Does it appear at irregular hours,
the master of its own schedule,
a thief of life's sand
when the grains in the glass
are already dwindling?
Does it steal your confidence,
the echoes of encouragement
from those forever dear,
turning the bright light of bravery
to unrecognizable shadows
at all angles of your maternal star?
Trace its roots curled far into your memory,
youth deep,
feeding on time's waters.
See the seed it had once been,
floating on an ill wind,
a feathery umbrella,
so minute and harmless.
Now speak its name,
whatever word you've given it,
pouring a new breeze from your lips
to guide the drifting seed
away from memory's garden.
(c) 2015 by Vincent Lowry
July 9, 2015
Surfing the Seconds - Free on Amazon!
Dear Friends,
I've decided to offer Surfing the Seconds free for the next four days on Amazon (Kindle Edition).
If you'd like to read the poetry book, go ahead and use this link to find it and download a copy:
http://www.amazon.com/Surfing-Seconds...
If you enjoy it, please leave a review!
Best,
-Vincent
I've decided to offer Surfing the Seconds free for the next four days on Amazon (Kindle Edition).
If you'd like to read the poetry book, go ahead and use this link to find it and download a copy:
http://www.amazon.com/Surfing-Seconds...
If you enjoy it, please leave a review!
Best,
-Vincent
July 6, 2015
Vessel of Love
The tide of tomorrow rolls hidden,
and the current of seasons past
cannot mirror the wind
feeding our sail.
Our charted waters flow in the moment,
and so too must the vessel of our love,
holding unwavering faith in the Northern Star
upon every test of a fickle sea.
Let each rippled sunrise breathe appreciation
for our days made anew,
and let our hearts remain forever tethered together,
navigating as one in the embrace of a moon's glow.
(c) 2015 by Vincent Lowry
and the current of seasons past
cannot mirror the wind
feeding our sail.
Our charted waters flow in the moment,
and so too must the vessel of our love,
holding unwavering faith in the Northern Star
upon every test of a fickle sea.
Let each rippled sunrise breathe appreciation
for our days made anew,
and let our hearts remain forever tethered together,
navigating as one in the embrace of a moon's glow.
(c) 2015 by Vincent Lowry
June 30, 2015
Stardust
We are flesh sculpted to cosmic bones,
restless eyes hunting answers in constellations long since vanished.
We are energy immortal,
atom time capsules sailing the winds of gravity,
tossed in waves of space-time.
We are aged white dwarfs,
giant hypernova,
newborn suns upon a dewy morning vine.
We are the destined few,
genes that out-raced, out-thought, out-willed, out-lived.
We are captains of consciousness,
trustees of life evolved,
key holders to a billion year fund.
We are light made physical,
angels long before death,
the triumph of a universe born blind.
Our time is short to see and shine.
restless eyes hunting answers in constellations long since vanished.
We are energy immortal,
atom time capsules sailing the winds of gravity,
tossed in waves of space-time.
We are aged white dwarfs,
giant hypernova,
newborn suns upon a dewy morning vine.
We are the destined few,
genes that out-raced, out-thought, out-willed, out-lived.
We are captains of consciousness,
trustees of life evolved,
key holders to a billion year fund.
We are light made physical,
angels long before death,
the triumph of a universe born blind.
Our time is short to see and shine.
November 30, 2014
Finite
It doesn't last,
though we often think otherwise.
So cast our line in the lake of today,
reel in what the universe provides,
and be thankful for boat we've been lent.
Feel the steady breeze of good memories,
see the golden rays of those within our marrow,
and silence the Sirens' luring hymn.
Finite is the soul's temple.
The trees echo this wisdom--
a million leaves rippling in a symphony
before drifting to the earth,
where they lay in display to the church of stars
and a moon's lonely gaze.
(c) 2014 by Vincent Lowry
though we often think otherwise.
So cast our line in the lake of today,
reel in what the universe provides,
and be thankful for boat we've been lent.
Feel the steady breeze of good memories,
see the golden rays of those within our marrow,
and silence the Sirens' luring hymn.
Finite is the soul's temple.
The trees echo this wisdom--
a million leaves rippling in a symphony
before drifting to the earth,
where they lay in display to the church of stars
and a moon's lonely gaze.
(c) 2014 by Vincent Lowry
October 31, 2014
Poem - Winged Beauty
I could say it’s the oily feathers that mesmerized me as a child,
and continues to hold my attention as an adult.
It’s the deepest black I’ve ever known or seen,
the seed of midnight,
and how it exists naturally on an animal
is a product of perfect genetic magic.
To call it evil is absurd.
Those sorts of teachings are first drilled into our heads
at vulnerable heights,
when knowledge clings to us easily,
leaving the dirty work of reassessing
facts and truths at ages far beyond
the walls of blackboards and hollows of cubbies.
It is, and will forever be, a winged beauty,
soaring over fields of wind-bent grass,
peppering an afternoon sky
as a part of the married flock in which it flies.
I sometimes picture the reflection
of the passing land in its noble eyes,
flowing top to bottom like credits in a movie
as autumn trees join harvested vineyards
in the lengthening tail of its flight.
We name it raven,
but “muse” seems more befitting
as it fades with the day,
its existence immortalized
on canvas, paper, and pixels.
(c) 2014 by Vincent Lowry
and continues to hold my attention as an adult.
It’s the deepest black I’ve ever known or seen,
the seed of midnight,
and how it exists naturally on an animal
is a product of perfect genetic magic.
To call it evil is absurd.
Those sorts of teachings are first drilled into our heads
at vulnerable heights,
when knowledge clings to us easily,
leaving the dirty work of reassessing
facts and truths at ages far beyond
the walls of blackboards and hollows of cubbies.
It is, and will forever be, a winged beauty,
soaring over fields of wind-bent grass,
peppering an afternoon sky
as a part of the married flock in which it flies.
I sometimes picture the reflection
of the passing land in its noble eyes,
flowing top to bottom like credits in a movie
as autumn trees join harvested vineyards
in the lengthening tail of its flight.
We name it raven,
but “muse” seems more befitting
as it fades with the day,
its existence immortalized
on canvas, paper, and pixels.
(c) 2014 by Vincent Lowry
September 30, 2014
Poem - All You Do
I know I didn’t say it yesterday
when the words tumbled away
like leaves over a root-cracked sidewalk,
the shedding memory
of a Maple tossed into autumn.
And tomorrow’s distractions
will hold a firm grip on the reins of my mind,
yet again,
trotting without care
toward a new trough of responsibilities,
of unending worries.
So I shall speak in this seed of the moment,
this grain upon this shifting dune of time,
pouring the thoughts of my heart
into a soul of rare beauty.
You are my foundation,
my core of being,
my second sun when rising,
my moonlight bliss when slipping contentedly into another dream.
Your presence has no substitute,
no replacement for the breath that floats my spirit,
anchors my pride,
restores my hope.
The love you have built inside me
stretches far into the heavens of the unseen,
a tower of unparalleled beauty,
a beacon of goodness and meaning.
You are the stars that guide my soul,
the billion arrows of light that pierce life's black dome,
mapping the path to home's eternal embrace.
May this seed of the moment take root,
flourishing to a bloom all that needs to be said,
revealing a flower of undying appreciation,
for all you do.
(C) 2014 by Vincent Lowry
when the words tumbled away
like leaves over a root-cracked sidewalk,
the shedding memory
of a Maple tossed into autumn.
And tomorrow’s distractions
will hold a firm grip on the reins of my mind,
yet again,
trotting without care
toward a new trough of responsibilities,
of unending worries.
So I shall speak in this seed of the moment,
this grain upon this shifting dune of time,
pouring the thoughts of my heart
into a soul of rare beauty.
You are my foundation,
my core of being,
my second sun when rising,
my moonlight bliss when slipping contentedly into another dream.
Your presence has no substitute,
no replacement for the breath that floats my spirit,
anchors my pride,
restores my hope.
The love you have built inside me
stretches far into the heavens of the unseen,
a tower of unparalleled beauty,
a beacon of goodness and meaning.
You are the stars that guide my soul,
the billion arrows of light that pierce life's black dome,
mapping the path to home's eternal embrace.
May this seed of the moment take root,
flourishing to a bloom all that needs to be said,
revealing a flower of undying appreciation,
for all you do.
(C) 2014 by Vincent Lowry
