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

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

Missing Your Love

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

Thanks, Jim.

Cafe Dumond is the best! I always took the streetcar from uptown to downtown. It was a dollar when I went to college there.

Dreaming of The Big Easy



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.

Lol!

It was an idea I'm considering for a dark comedy because it seems so impossible for these guys to pull it off.

:)

Hi Jim,

In NM, you should visit the Santa Fe downtown plaza (the art galleries are wonderful), and if you get the chance, Taos Mountain--two hours north of Santa Fe. Santa Fe Mountain is good too, so definitely plan for some hiking in the woods (it shouldn't kill you!).

That area in Brentwood is not too far from where I live. You're giving me some ideas here, Jim.

:D

I'll answer Gemma first.

Hi Gemma :)

When I work on a project, I usually do have a goal of when I'd like to be done with it. I currently have a goal of doing 1 book per year. I might change this to two or three, but for now 1 is good with my schedule.

Regarding the title, I like selecting words from a poem within the book that can stand out as a title. For example, my last book was a collection of short stories and poetry. The title I selected was Dreams Reign Supreme because I liked the thought that everyone's goals can come true if they work hard enough at them. You will find that title in the last stanza of the last poem in the book.

My next book title will be chosen using the same logic.

I sure am :)

My third book will be pure poetry--probably a collection of 30 or so of my best poems.

I hope to have it out within the next year.

Hi Gemma,

Some authors do write a poem a day (and even more than that), but I prefer to create one at least once a week. My schedule is a little busy, so I try my best to juggle my responsibilities.

Comparing Your Beauty



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 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.

Absorbed



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.

The Nazi War Criminal


I read on the news today
That a 97-year-old Nazi commander
Was finally caught while living
Comfortably in Budapest.

Laszlo Csatary was his name.
When I first saw the story
My initial instinct,
After the glory I’m sure most people felt

Upon hearing his capture,
Was: God, these madmen are still alive?
I started to ponder all the events
He had lived through.

WWI and Germany’s defeat.
WWII and his participation
In ending so many innocent lives.
The rise of Elvis Presley,

Close to the time Laszlo was sentenced
In absentia to death in a Czech court.
Beatlemania, right in the heart
Of the Civil Rights Movement.

Humanity’s walk on the moon,
Presumably while Laszlo was in
Hiding in Canada.
The birth of Yoda and the Jedi.

The vote for Reagan,
The Challenger splitting into pieces,
And Berlin Wall falling into its own fragments.
Then there would be the Internet,

A Tuesday on September 11th,
And a kid named Zuckerberg
Whose site would connect the world.
Perhaps it’s this last event that strikes

Me as the most chilling.
Did Laszlo set up a secret Facebook profile?
Maybe he used the picture of a sunflower
And went under the name John Smith.

And if so, did people befriend him?
Send him happy birthday wall notes?
“Like” his weekly or daily posts?
Offer him the life thousands of his victims should have had?

Music’s Wings

It’s impossible to fathom
How I could be in this
Swelling city one moment—
The cars stacked together
Beyond the eye’s gaze,
The buildings standing
Shoulder to shoulder in a battalion
Of concrete and glass—

And the next moment
I’m transported to an open field
Of my youth
Where Sandhill Crane
Soar in V’s and W’s
And knee-high grass
Sways with the wind’s
Gentle hand.

On music’s wings,
I peer down and spot
The ditch that hides
Crawdads and toads,
The double plank bridge
That bows under the weight
Of my bike,
The tumbleweeds that roll
West into infinity.

I fly with the crane,
Migrating to some lost land
I once had such a firm
Grip on,
To a time I once thought
I owned.

A half sun rests on the horizon,
Spilling gold into the sky,
Summoning yet another call
For the desert stars
That shall soon shine in its void.

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.
Know that it lights their soul
On the pit of all nights.
It shades their heart
On the fury of all days.
Witness the smiles you receive,
The laughter that floods your ears,
And take pride that hate, jealousy, sorrow, and pain are buried
Under all that torn decorative paper.

Family of Six


The first room is closest to mine
And it usually has one parent,
But it used to have two.

The next room is down the hallway,
Past cabinets holding
Supplies, photo albums, holiday decorations.

It too is empty
With weights sinking into the carpet
And karate trophies kicking on shelves.

The next door down was often closed
When I wanted to enter it most.
But now it's open and walking in doesn't hold

The same excitement it once did.
Light pours through glass
And spills onto an untouched bed.

The final room holds silence inside the closet,
Stillness beside the dresser,
And the last member of a family of six.

I hear the air conditioning turn on.

Backyard Dinner

It was late afternoon,
The sun highlighting the tree tops,
The wind beginning to usher evening's chill.

I sat next my five-year-old boy
And forked at my stuffed bell peppers
While he spooned his noodle soup.

Picture a wine glass
Half red,
Beside a cut rose in a vase.

Now shift your eyes and behold
The orange shavings of six loquats,
The peels piled in sticky layers.

If I could paint and show a friend
A slice of this April weekend,
This would be my subject.

I'd start with the disposed loquat seeds
Resting in my bowl,
Huddled together as if glued as one unit.


I'd then move to the pomegranate tree
Where spring sprinkled its magic
And summoned a brilliant crimson bloom.

The last touches on my canvas
Would have to be my boy
And his small hand on mine.

Just father and son
At a backyard dinner,
Where simplicity silenced a world.


(c) 2012 by Vincent Lowry

Writing...
It starts at the keyboard, and it ends at the far corners of the universe.

To be the master of tomorrow's dreams, you must first be the servant of today's planning.

Follow the dreams of others and you will receive a paycheck. Follow your own dreams and you will never check your pay.

There is only one right way: the path that beckons your heart.

Only one thing supersedes the importance of thinking about a better tomorrow. It's taking action today.