…this day…
I cannot sleep, for sleep is the sibling of death
A young Queensbridge poet stated
Just the facts, when the air left her brother’s breath,
Another day chalked up as ill-fated
Are we slated for more pain, more sorrow
What plans are in store for us tomorrow.
Many years of neglect, tubes in his chest,
And manipulation at his bedside
Dreams above him, like a dead tree bough rests
And dirt his companion on the hillside
On the inside my ire, a raging fiend
Angry with dreams that were left unredeemed
One day, maybe today, when sight will cease
And the sycamore trees will not catch the breeze
Mumbled jargon out of syntax will bring peace,
Pain no more in hold of a prisoner, released…
Silent genuflection, scuffed skin removed
My knees not the only things left bruised.
The silence haunts, the anguish haunts, this pair
of blackened ravens’ foreground his rest
A mourning bell reverberates the air
In echoes, history raids my soul and tests
A sentence, this blackness, hostage taken,
darkened veil, him lost from the equation.
Ache…the void left unfilled; the hole left open
The empty seat at a concert, his ticket
His nonsense calls, the hospital toll, hoping,
Praying, but no…God was too busy to visit
A white cross on the wicket we pass to talk
A dying sycamore tree, the left of our walk
The chain saw teeth grinding away on wood
Her eyes filling like a breached submarine
she curses her Kleenex for being no good
she needs another, her makeup a crime scene
Sun beams stifle, brightest days, turn blackest nights
This unbalanced seesaw, life becomes a blight.
We pass my aunt’s place on the ride back home
Her apartment hall, the 2nd floor peephole
Across from Kimball Ave, her collection of tomes,
ominous scars tinge, same quiet flagpole
That void, my wife’s brother, my brother-in-law
Just like her mother before, the kid’s grandma
A white rectangle for my pen of bone marrow
Stories lining the pathways of my own language
In silence, a nod, as the tomb takes its last barrow
Left hand draws an ohmage for the last judge
a swift journey to be had, beyond the veil
To Sorrentino’s, to then drown in crisp ale…
~~~~
For more works by this author see Paul Neglia on The Creative Exiles.
You can also see more great work by Paul Neglia on HubPages.
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Beautiful poetry that covers a range of different emotions. Well done Paul. Jamie
I like the gamut of emotions and the futility you portray along with the frustration of possibilities not fulfilled.
Well done!
Wow, simply wow. The gauntlet of emotions I felt reading this was almost overwhelming. Awesome work Paul!