Author: poetryfest

We boarded the 727 as
individuals, not as
units or platoons.
We flew shoulder-to-shoulder,
the dirty-faced dogs of war, and
everyday civilians who
didn’t know what we had
seen, or done, or felt inside.
The day before, we
encountered a little gook
kid, not more than 10 or 11,
wearing black pajamas and holding
an AK. He raised it
and the last thing he ever saw on
the Earth was a
muzzle flash.
M16 rounds are not made to wound men,
but to kill them deader than dead,
so imagine the horror when the rip
the soul out of a child and scatter it
on the ground like entrails of a lamb
thrown to a pack of wolves.
Did his mother mourn?
Was she even alive herself to do so?
How could we ever know?
What were we to do?
We left on planes, sprinkled into
the wind like
the ashy remains of a loved one,
each to our own corner.
I disembarked in Ohio,
an Eden wonderland compared to the
merciless jungle.
I hugged my mother, just 38 hours after another
son was sent to his grave,
and as yet more sons were left to
savage one another for a cause with
no purpose.
Our units were now broken
apart,
left alone to digest wordless stories that
couldn’t be spoken, that had no end,
and were only revealed in endless
nightmares.
We arrived as soldiers,
some to die quickly, some left alone
to die over the course of decades, an
acidic decomposition of
body, mind, and spirit,
until all that remained was a
set of soaked pajamas
of a little boy crying out
for help.

When we die we give back to the earth what we borrowed from her and set off towards our true home the stars.
Within stars resides the seeds of all creation.

Within suns morning always comes and night can gain no foothold and shadows know no rest.

Light upon light
Burning after burning
Glory unto glory

Nothingness illuminated
Beacons throughout the universe that cry out
We are, we have been, and we will be.

You played this game of
do or lose, and lost the game of living to a
pale man called Death-but the rooms
found out and the white face of the
clock found out and stopped time just for you.
A year moved forward (went back) and you are still
a young man trying to find out the meaning of Life,
which is as dim as classical music is to your deaf ears.

Sometimes Death is as close as vivid is to
the red eye, and you just want to cry,
but Death leaves you laying there,
bleeding on the doorstep (strawberry red jam
shoots out of your ears).
Then you live once more-you are
resurrected, let’s say-but the living is
only half-living, and the Death is only half-death.

This game of Life and Death-of “do” or lose-
is a party to get your young
mind to sleep in bed with Eternity:
Eternity as dark as birth,
as dark as a majestic mountain peak against a purple
night sky,
as dark as her own black Father cursing in his
shallow grave.

Whiney chair slandered by prosperous weight

suffocating
mouthful of powdered cheese strays fleeing fight of jaws
clamp dirt shoveled in disdainful luxurious muddy pit
punctured stomach scythe splitting regret-filled torso midnight comes
early bird swallows worm whole retching its guts to feed
baby cradled in wicker sheets absorbed fantasies of premature
skins touching skins pruney wrinkles whiskey bath porcelain
rims of vehicle wheels worn pile metal scraps – yield
forgotten
suicide notes course through arteries vieling promises neglected
truth.

Burrowed breaths tobacco stained walls nails scratching beholds
guilt splattered mucus violent yellow eyes stare down acid
burning

esophagus coughing unspoken desire annihilated in pill and needle
piercing sterling-silver chain mail ransom letters scramble inhibiting
sores splintered lips sewn to enemies wringing elbow greased grit
between teeth cracking diamonds polished jet-black motor oil
rushing

crimson river floating lilies standing knee-deep drowning
empty lungs

gaping legs bestow flickering candle-lit tunnel hot wax runs s l o w l y
buried alive dressed in doilies memory thieved cherrywood casket stands
alone.

Beneath the weight of silence,
the body lays, still and pale,
where once a heart beat steady,
now only shadows tell the tale.

Whispers fill the empty room,
of laughter, love, and fear,
but all that remains is the space—
the absence where you once were near.

The breath that danced with morning,
the hands that held the sky,
now rest beneath the cold, dark earth,
as the final hours pass by.

A thread that once was golden,
now frayed and worn, untold,
and in the quiet, beneath the soil,
the body is wrapped in cold.

All that remains is the coffin’s lid,
the weight of the end, serene,
the hands that grasped, the eyes that saw,
now lost in the spaces between.

And in the stillness, a soft release,
the pulse of life now still,
the body rests, the soul takes flight—
death’s quiet, final chill.

The elevator doors open on the fourth floor of St. Bartholomew’s. The air is thick—antiseptic, endings, whispers of nurses who have tried, who have failed. Your father’s episodes… we cannot contain him.

But how does one contain a man who has spent a lifetime filling theaters with thunder, with laughter, with the echoes of a hundred voices?

His room is a barricade, chairs upturned, a fortress of blankets and rage. This is no hospital—this is a prison! And I am its captive!

I step forward, script in hand. “Dad, it’s Alice. I’ve brought something special.”

The air shifts. The wild glint in his eyes flickers, softens. Alice, my star… have you come to set me free?

I offer the script like a peace offering, like a map home. The Last Voyageur. His final role. His greatest performance.

He takes it, fingers tracing the pages like old memories. “It speaks of a voyageur?”
“It speaks of you.”

I drape the Hudson Bay Point blanket over his shoulders—the one he always admired but never bought, the one that belongs to him now.

“It’s a prop, Dad. For the voyageur.”

A shift. The room is no longer a hospital, no longer an ending, but a stage. The bed, a canoe. The script, a paddle. And as he recites, the current takes him. His voice strong, rolling over the walls like waves. He sings—En roulant ma boule—a song older than time, a song that carries.

And for a moment, the illness is upstaged, the audience holds its breath, and my father is who he has always been.

Night falls. The script slips from his fingers. His voice quiets. The monitor stills. In spring, I lay him in his final canoe, overlooking a quiet lake. The theater masks—comedy and tragedy—stand watch. The blanket, now his shroud.

The wind stirs. A whisper. A rowing song on the breeze. The lake ripples. The voyage continues.

Since my fathers death I cannot write but I’ll try it here
this grief feeling a lot like fear
walking around broken inside
yet where we reside
is out there
so I trudge along with this latest trauma
tight inside my chest
hurt feeling and offense
for now unresolved
making it even harder to hear
what is meant for me now so
I bow
my head often in prayer
hoping an answer lies there
is it you now walking with me Dad?
The constancy of what we had
now gone
my heart broken
I feel your freedom though
and had dreams of your face all aglow
as you gazed with joy at your new untethered future
which made me happy
I will hold that vision and cry my tears
and feel my fears
and love you
forever
til we meet again

He was my brother
And would have enjoyed
Crossing the Kentucky River
And the Rio Grand’
In the same day
And I have to say
I would have
Enjoyed it, too
If I hadn’t been
Coming back
From his funeral

That dress you left behind? It carried on,
splayed out diagonally across my chest-
nut table. I ripped carefully along
the seams holding the plastic teeth abreast

and set the jaws aside. Stitched ribbon skin
along the wounded spine and plucked each piece
of fur that stabbed the fabric deep within
its weave. Your dog, like you, would never cease

its shedding or its anger. Unlike you,
the thing was blameless and ugly. The dress
is mine now, hanging on your old pool cue,
which leans against my wall. I cleaned the mess

created by the restoration. I
will cut and sew your things until I die.

You want to,
cry aloud.
it was my mistake

Tell me am I am coward,
this guilt is weighing me down

Honeysuckle scent,
suffocating me

If I wasn’t a coward,
would our conversation have
ended differently

You don’t say you’re scared,
And I don’t say “I’m sorry”

When you’re already gone,
beneath the surface.

Layered beneath stone and dirt,
unmoving in sedimentary

Whether burned or buried,
the end isn’t up to me

Imaginary tears
on your face
I scream and cry

The honeysuckle scent
Suffocating me,
but not you.

I’m the one left suffocating
I’m the one left scared.