An Empty Pack of Cigarettes and a Bottle of Wine

He always smelled of cigarettes and wine

in his faded blue jeans and cowboy boots

whose smile was as bright as the day’s decline

or a black hellebore plucked by its roots.

The buttons hung loose from his army coat.

His dark hair was always in disarray,

and a silver cross would glint at his throat

whenever the sunlight would shine his way.

He flicked the Bic in the palm of his hand

to hammer the coffin nail on his lip.

His laughter was as dry as desert sand.

The back of his mind was an acid trip.

He was a ghost that came back from the edge

who saw his brothers in arms as they fell.

He lived to tell it but became a wedge,

a broken hero of heaven in hell.

The bloody footprints that lived in his skin

followed him everywhere day and night;

and screams, like mortars, exploded within

like a rain of bullets to kill the light.

He walked in darkness with nightmares to bind,

bound to the past and its vaunted glory.

With blood in his veins and blood left behind,

there are deep scars and wounds to his story.

He drowned the past in the back of his throat;

but it was short-lived and temporary,

for wine unwinds and the memories float.

It was a burden too great to carry.

With a tattooed eagle and karmic wheel,

he etched forever the weary way tread,

undreamed his dreams, turned his feelings to steel,

and lay at night with the ghosts of the dead.

Most never noticed the rain in his eyes

for they were afraid of what they might see

for shadows do rise and truth never lies.

Paper-thin walls fold eventually.

He walked among us; yet, he walked alone.

He drove a black ’66 Impala.

Aimless and wayward, a feather or stone,

he sought the peace of ancient Shambhala.

One night, he awoke to a battle cry,

to the sounds of dying and Phantom jets.

In a cold sweat shivered, whispered a sigh,

then he reached for his pack of cigarettes.

The pack was empty, a quarter past nine.

He got up to dress to go buy some more.

He carried with him a bottle of wine,

planned to drink it on the way to the store.

He started the engine, backed down the drive,

took a swig; and he was well on his way.

The wind in his hair made him feel alive.

Another swig chased the demons away.

He rounded the bend and blew out a tire.

He lost control as he slammed on the brakes,

hit a pole, and then the Chevy caught fire.

This was the last of his many mistakes.

The police arrived with a siren’s scream.

He had been thrown, in a terrible state.

He floated downstream, bloodstream to redeem;

and the last words that he heard were "… too late."

He always smelled of cigarettes and wine.

The shadow of night stretches over hill.

His ashes were scattered over the vine,

and his spirit is there lingering still.

Author's Note

Reviews

[Lydia Shutter]

The casualties of war are so much more than the body count. Those who are fortunate enough to return home are never the same. So many suffer from PTSD or suffer with addictions and can never live "normal" lives again. I could smell the cigarettes and wine...I could feel the pain. Your words are so very powerful, Linda. Lydi**

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Thank you so much, Lydia.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

intense metaphors and personification in this piece that so aptly describes the war after the war...
the soldiers who do come home physically in one piece, often are in pieces in their minds...living becomes more just an existence, barely breathing...but not feeling alive.
the loss because of war is so devastating...and we never really learn.
j.

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

"We never really learn." Yes, this is so terribly true, the damage irreparable with lives ever changed.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

and as much as i was so against the Viet Nam War...i was even more against the treatment returning soldiers received....that was unforgivable...

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

I totally agree.

[Kelly Scheppers]

I knew from reading your title this would be dynamic in every way. I was snared by your every verse as I scrolled down the page, and took it all in...

A staggering read, Linda!

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Thanks, Kelly.

[emipoemi]

The way you write is simply too surreal for words!! I am in awe! Well done!

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Thank you.