…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.

Paul Neglia
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Paul Neglia

Proud father of 3. Part time writer of poetry and short stories. I want to paint the world in but a few words.

3 thoughts on “…this day…

  • January 27, 2023 at 12:17 PM

    I like the gamut of emotions and the futility you portray along with the frustration of possibilities not fulfilled.
    Well done!

  • January 28, 2023 at 3:11 AM

    Wow, simply wow. The gauntlet of emotions I felt reading this was almost overwhelming. Awesome work Paul!

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