Vincent’s Comments (group member since Nov 22, 2011)

Vincent’s comments from the Q&A with Vincent Lowry group.

Memory Lane


Was there ever a street
named Memory Lane?
If so, was it filled
with classic cars
humming lyrics for lovers
as it twisted and bobbed
past golden Aspens
and blooming Orchards?

Did the road commence
at the foot of a black and white
drive-thru, where teenage passions
spilled forth in rivers as wild
as newborn dreams?
And where exactly did the lane end?
Was it when the dreamy
neighborhood became real estate?

When the summer patios and grassy yards
became deserted and unfamiliar?
When kissing stops became
just another intersection to wait out a light?
But perhaps there was no getting on or off at all.
Every boulevard, avenue, ramp…
all memory lanes through the city of
a mind in constant construction.

We should park this poem right here,
in the shade of this beautiful Orchard.


(c) 2013 by Vincent Lowry

Sax on the Summit

Our spirits linked some 7,000 feet,
the edge of the world,
nature’s mountain of harmony.

A safety railing
stood as a reminder
of society’s rules,

of laws that had
carved this land
and sold its beauty.

Without hesitation,
over the rail he went,
saxophone in hand,

heart on lips.
When music poured forth
and filled my core with courage,

I followed his journey
to experience how this summit
once looked untouched.

The wind hit my face anew,
crisp and pure as a winter stream.
I saw the mist on the hills,

a white veil over waves of trees
and wildlife too exotic for
my limited mind to picture.

And the sun.
My goodness, the sun…
An orange ball perched

on the horizon
as if it were a surreal star
from worlds beyond,

somehow looking both unfamiliar
and magnificent in a shared moment.
How could I have not known about

this beauty before?
What railings have I hidden behind?
What rules have I blindly followed?

The man with the sax has no answers,
only music of the soul,
“Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”



If you would like to see the picture I captured of this scene, please visit this link: http://vincentlowry.zenfolio.com/p791...

:)

Thank you!

I like that, Andrea :)

Thank you, Andrea! Welcome to the group!

I hope you enjoy my work :)

Hi Stephanie,

I think that's a good way of putting it.

:)

Surfing the Seconds


Rare are the moments
when we recognize
the doors that silently
seal off one stage of our life
and usher us into another.

They creep up on us,
these “last” experiences:
the push of a growing toddler
on a swing; the hug of an
aged loved one at a party.

If we are lucky enough
to wedge our foot in the door’s path
and savor the final moment
before it has perished,
aren’t we only intensifying the ache

that always trails time’s journey?
“Say goodbye to the house, honey,”
or, to really feel it,
“You better talk to your mother now.
She won’t make it through the night.”

What words can we offer at that hour?
What time capsule is available
to trap all the golden nuggets
of goodness, of dignity, of love
for us to share later on?

For isn’t that what we really want?
To show an understanding soul
the beauty of what was experienced,
the memory of what was once loved?
But perhaps a part of it is selfishness.

The joy is simply to surf the seconds
that pass, dipping our hands in the cool water,
and close our mind
to the thoughts that often
distract us at all hours.

We scream: this is life; live the moment before it is lost.


(c) 2013 by Vincent Lowry

How is your health?
I start with that because
everything else falls under that tree.
If the roots are cracked,
or the bark is stripped,
it won't matter how ripe the fruit is
for next season it will vanish.

After that, I'll ask about your family and friends.
Like the beams in a building,
they support the frame of your life.
You will likely give a generic answer,
"They are fine," but I know they are within
the marrow of your soul
and they constantly orbit your thoughts.

Lastly, I'll ask about your job.
Note how I put this at the back of the line.
Your ego might scream at this undesired placement,
for degrees, titles, and money
are what you spend your days obtaining.
But careers fade like the seasons,
leaving only the tree, and its many branches, behind.

One


Stay near.
Let our hearts be on the same journey.
May the world’s wonders
cascade before our eyes in a shared moment,
lifting our spirits upon a common wing.

Find me.
If ever I am lost,
and the line of our bond appears severed,
gaze up and discover a billion guiding stars
pointing the path of a love that cannot fracture.

Reach out.
Light may blind,
darkness often conceals,
but stretch your hand in any hour of need
and find my touch.

Hold tight.
Time’s gales bend all.
Lock our souls arm in arm,
and cast away any thoughts
that what lies beyond shall find us apart.

The Unvisited Past


Morro Rock still stood
proudly to the heavens in its blue bath,
and the feathered hunters,
though now several generations removed,
continued to circle nature’s landmark
in a display of the bay’s timelessness.

Yet much had changed since I last cast
my shadow on this harbor.
A birth had transformed lives,
a darkness had stolen a fragile love,
and a dream had unfolded into something
vast and unfathomable.

It is the unvisited past that hits the hardest,
the returned trips to sites we seldom frequent.
Time is measured not by days or weeks,
but by vows, promotions, heartbreaks, and deaths.
One does not have the benefit of
too many sunsets smoothing the sharp edges of memory.

Here nothing is blurred.
The past spreads open before you
with all its blemishes and imperfections,
showing a vibrant picture of where you once stood,
a youth bound for greatness, for bliss,
and where you now sit,

humbled by years,
the ice cream bleeding down your cone.
But wisdom, the slowest of waters,
flows in abundance in these rare moments.
It cascades from above, off the mountain
you’ve been ascending since days unremembered.

Louisiana Beauty



The ad was on Craigslist,
possibly the shadiest of sites,
where posts about furniture sales
can lead to one filing a police report
about robbery or assault.

But I had to build my portfolio
and a southern girl needed a headshot picture,
so we met at Starbucks,
for her safety and mine,
and we gave a piece about ourselves

to show our peaceful intentions.
Then we traveled to the photo location
and began the poses and smiles
necessary to move our careers forward
and continue our artistic journey.

She was older and extremely self-conscious
about the lines time had carved on
her face, thin tracks under weary eyes
that had seen more than their share
of Hollywood disappointments and regrets.

And money had not befriended her.
Not that it mattered.
Ours was a simple exchange,
a model on my end to show my work,
a set of pictures on her end to submit for auditions.

And then it was over.
A warm embrace.
A trade of thank you's.
And later a simple text from a Louisiana beauty:
"God bless."

Kids on Ice


The birthday party was for
a six-year-old,
a best friend of my son.

Awkward were the blades
on our feet:
thin knives supporting

the whole of our weight.
And the ice would be as
forgiving as concrete

said a man in front of me
before I stepped into the rink.
My son hugged the wall

while I ventured into
a crowd much more accustomed
to the sport I was attempting.

But I soon got a better
feel for my skates,
and so too did my boy,

leaving the wall's embrace
to join the circling children.
It made me a kid again,

watching him smile
and laugh and fall.
It was his first time.

And I was most proud that
he was giving it his all,
that he was braving the unknown

and opening his mind to learning.
He taught me life's purest lesson:
Always try. Always.

(C) 2013 by Vincent Lowry

White Sands


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.

The Day We Held Them Closer


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

Thank you, Mary. :)

I figured out how to attach that photo as well.

:)

Father & Son


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.

Into the Lost Meadow



This poem is to appease the critic,
to sail across the 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.

Time


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

Forgiveness



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