Author: poetryfest

I heard a meow
and, without thinking,
reached down
to scratch a set of ears.

But my cat wasn’t there.
I’d had her euthanized
a month ago. The ghost noise
was something
inside my damaged brain.

Still, I flexed my fingers
and searched for the rubbery
patch of skin between two ears.

Then I heard a frightening noise,
as my arm fell from
the shoulder socket,
and thumped to the ground.

I immediately sat up,
and stared at the strange object
on the floor.
My fingers were white and curled
like a sea creature.
The upper limb
wobbled briefly on parquet tiles,
then, as I watched,
my ex-arm turned into a pile of
ash and bone chips.

I stared at the empty pajama sleeve,
at bits of dust spilling from the cuff,
and tried to apologise
for making a mess of things.

But I was alone,
unable to cry, and
didn’t dare go back to sleep.

I was born and raised in South Philadelphia.
1921, of course.
I was born
in my house in Devil’s Pocket, before it…
You know, stopped being Devil’s Pocket.

I guess, long story short: I grew up poor, I met a perfect, beautiful girl…

The war came, and uh, I went…
There was nothing
super about me at the time.
Just a duty to my country, and to humanity.
And an absolute devotion to protecting my wife.

All I’d ever wanted was to be a dad.
And… the war came, so we stopped trying, because…
I had to go.

This wasn’t Vietnam, kid. This wasn’t the “War on Terror.”
This was World War II.
So, yes, I did
have to go.
And I went. I went with my best friend.
My best friend since I was 10. He- She…

I have to call her “Emile,” because I never got the chance to–
To ask her…

She… got me through it. Through the killing.
She helped me remember that I was human.
That, although what we were doing was violent, the people we were committing
the violence against…
That those people, those
devils… who could do that– do that to other people…
other human beings… just because–
Not because of anything they’d
done but just how they were
born– who they were
born to…

That the devils who could do those things, they were the ones who weren’t human.

You’d have to become something else– you’d have to become somethingunforgivable to do those things to another person… to so… many people.
And, the night before, she– Emile, I mean– she told me.
She told me about herself. And she said–

Well, first she… She just— She came over to my bunk, a little while after lights out–
I never slept overseas. I was awake most of the night, most nights…

And she– She came over and kneeled and leaned in so close…
And like the most important secret of your life…
She said,
“Francis. I have to tell you something and I don’t think you will want to hear it.
In fact, I think you might hate me when I tell you… and you may even kill me
tonight because of it.”

And she said, “I’m not a man. I’m a woman. I know that doesn’t make sense to
you, but I… I
know, Frank. I
know.”

And she– She said, “I don’t care how awful dying is… whether it’s you and these
boys, or the Nazi scum, or some redneck back home after the war behind a bar…no death could be worse than leaving this world without ever telling someone who
I am… Not someone. Not ‘anyone.’ Someone I love.”

And then she just– She kissed my cheek.
And she went back to her bunk.

Before she could get 10 feet away, I was following her with my blanket.

And I crawled into her bunk with her. And I held her while she cried.
And I cried too.

And we just cried and laid together. And after about 20 minutes, when she fell asleep, I kissed her cheek. And I told her I loved her.
And I went back to bed.

When I woke up in the morning, there were spots on my arm from where her tears
had landed, spots glowing with the most beautiful light…

They just—they just barge in and wake you up so damn early.
I never got a chance… to show her the glowing spots.

She died.
Uh, on D-Day. She died. She died and, um, I didn’t…

I went home.
And
I kissed my wife.
And

I bought a house.
And
I had a baby…
I know I’m not supposed to be telling you so many details, but we…

We named her Emilia… That’s my daughter’s name.(Chuckling)
The Boomer.
After Emile… who was the strongest person I’ve ever met.(Trying to lighten to mood a bit)
And I’ve met Tony-Two-Tons!(Smiles sadly)

This morning I went out
in search of God.
But when I found him
in the sun-dazed field,
he lifted up his head
for just a moment
and then continued
tending olive trees.
I left with heavy eyes,
not seeing silence
as an invitation.

She lay on the slab,
White sheets hitched up like a skirt,
One red eye, pink as the morning,
Interlocked with mine as I
wiped the pus from her petticoat.
When I asked why she was naked,
Chest bare, chest broken- he said
‘The dead have a funny way of flirting.’

I averted my gaze as
I plunged my fingers into her chest,
Rooted around in ruby until I found it-
With her beaten heart in my hands I wondered,
How carelessly others had held it before me.
Spotted with black like mold,
It shivered at my touch
But the valves seemed to speak to me,
Spurting blood in morse code.

They whispered stories of cold lovers,
Ones that nipped at her like frost,
Carved out her insides like a pomegranate.
A forced spreading of seeds.
Some were kind but aloof, some were violent
But every time she sliced her heart into strips
And tied tourniquets around their wounds.
She said she would do it all again,

It was easy as breath,
Compared to the man she met after death.

She murmured his name
Soft as a splinter,
raised her hand
And pointed a finger.

I felt her spirit on my shoulder,
Let her enter through my palm,
We lunged towards him with
A fury you cannot embalm.

They may not believe me but that doesn’t matter.
That’s how I ended up with two cadavers.

Sunrise,
Hope is a fried egg
Doused in butter and salt
Coffee scouring away the fog
Be still

Quarters from couch cushions,
dimes from junk drawers—
three gallons in Tommy’s rusted wagon,
odometer dead at 180,000.

Saturday nights, six bodies
crammed into that Buick,
dirt roads snaking through tobacco,
Tommy driving blind on acid.
“Helps me see the curves,” he’d say.

I claimed the back,
flat against worn carpet,
Kentucky sky wheeling overhead—
kaleidoscope god shaking stars
through holes in black paper.

Lynda curled beside me,
Herbal Essence and rebellion
in her hair, both of us
watching darkness roll past
like traveling through space.

Eight-track drifting back:
stolen Zeppelin, Floyd,
wind through open windows
mixing with distant cattle,
everything connected—

music, movement, chemical fire
coursing through blood,
the road breathing
beneath spinning wheels.

§

Route 62, past Morrison’s place:
transmission dies
near the tobacco barn.
Tommy turns the key
to silence.

“That’s that.”

We gather our remnants:
jackets, wallet, and
half-empty Mad Dog,
and abandon the Buick
like a stripped carcass.

Two miles home on foot,
footsteps synchronized,
still high enough
to find magic in asphalt,
still young enough

to believe the real journey
happens inside our heads
where stars keep spinning,
music never stops,
and tomorrow remains

uncharted territory.

On a brown-black table lies a tiny box of happiness
Not in itself, the box was far too cynical, but
In the act of doing what was told by the
Chafing mind of a wistful little girl
In her little warren of grey, but
Apace! apace! one and one
One more and another;
Assure that happy
Is the key, one
And another;
Prest-o!

I saw you take my brother
That time I was too young
You came then for mother
And your eyes sang me a song

How to bring you back my love?
On my sister tied a knot
Then I saw you right above
But you took her with no word

My father drank the poison
And he fell swift to the floor
While he cried with abandon
I awaited at the door.

But the neighbors came instead
And with them some nice old men
With good mood I went ahead
And of my lust sang A-MEN!

Now in the gallows I wait
Content I’ll see you again
I know we’ll go on a date
You will know my feelings then

A wretched stench in the village square
Dozens dead without a prayer
Bloody Bill and Johnny Reb
Heed the beast to keep them fed
Those deceased from left to right
What on earth this fateful plight

Trains ablaze down the track
Rhyme then reason fade to black
More blood to shed tomorrow nigh
Widows’ curse to scream then cry
Sons and daughters kneel to pray
Covered in red our blue and gray

I am not living.
I am not crying.
I am breaking.
Folding into the hollow of my ribs where hope was once kept.
Now gone like the leaves off the trees.
My joy has left without a sound.
My heart is beating, but I can no longer feel it.
My mind feels empty and yet so full.
I bury my face into my hands, so worn and calloused.
So I don’t have to see the world that keeps moving on without me.
Have I sat here for minutes?
Hours?
Days?
I don’t move.
Not because I don’t want to.
But because I’m trapped in a body that keeps breathing.
Even when I wish it wouldn’t anymore.
How much can a soul take before it just disappears?
The chair beneath me groans like it feels the same pain I do.
Like it’s held too many people just like me.
People who have used their last words and now sit in rooms of silence.
My shoulders ache like they carry something unseen.
And grief curls up in my chest so tightly I can feel it slowly breaking through the surface of my
skin.
I want it to end.
Not my life.
But the hurting.
But my pain is loyal.
It knows me by name.
It comes back to me every night when I try to sleep.
Curling up where my rejoicing used to lie.
I can no longer feel my pain.
I wish I could scream.
Get up.
Break something.
Curse God himself.
But instead, I am stuck sitting in this chair.
The clock ticks silently, like a sorrowful song made just for me.
I am slowly unraveling, and that is the worst hell of all.
Because in hell, you can scream and plead, as the flames lick at your feet.
But instead…
I sit here.
Hopeless.
Burning alive, yet not making a sound.
On the edge of eternity.

This poem is inspired by the painting “At Eternity’s Gate” by Vincent Van Gogh. I tried to
capture the sheer grief and hopelessness of the man sitting in the chair. The painting was made
during the time Vincent was admitted to a psychiatric ward and battling his mental health. So I
wanted to respectfully honor that by making a poem inspired by this artist.