Anguish is this elderly veteran’s war souvenir

When the mood is alone, and he struggles to fall asleep

Threatening remembrances troll his subconscious, equipped to reappear

Recollections become nightmares of soldiers treading across a minefield like sheep

And a boy, barely a young man, experiences in uniform the inconceivable dread of fear

Apologizing for each misstep that he killed friends, whose names are his forever to keep.

Unsympathetic are the years that pass, marbled with a soldier’s quota of condemnation

Despite longstanding confession, the nightmares persist, tirelessly articulated all the more

The nightmares began after I was discharged, and believed I was borderline mad with disfunction

‘There but for the grace of God go I,’ guilty for having fought in and survived The Great War.

The Great War

Damn, the Great War.

A ghastly winter prowls outdoors, as the night’s frigid temperature drops another degree

Inside a veteran’s home sitting room, on a beechwood night table stained with water rings

A candle set in a taper-handled pewter holder provides a light for what he chooses to see

Its lively flame reigns over his small room by reshaping the appearance of familiar things.

Ghostly shadows wearing foreign shapes execute maneuvers on a grey field of plaster wall

A retired British Expeditionary Force soldier, he answers to the sketch of a frayed body

Hallucinations besiege his waning days like a gang of hoodlums lying in wait for nightfall.

Fidgeting in his caned seat perturbed by minor obsessions, his mind coughs stale air

He complains of asthma, so he pulls close a Scottish wool blanket across his tapered lap

A similar weave he recalls, to his old army issue that provided him unfailing care

His soldier AB64 paybook, with its dog-eared cover and accountings of times long past

Is preserved along with a small white feather inside a tin he keeps by the seat of his companion wheelchair.

Jubilation to fight an enemy! he exclaims from his sitting room, furnished neatly with history

Mixed with faux rosewood furniture, doilies mother made, and a codger’s forlorn thought

Britain was goin’ to war, he alone recalls, with a clarity that borders on the exemplary

In the days when his time is expiring, and calls for his opinion are rarely sought

A pair of old soldier’s eyes see the quiet interrupted by quarantined memory.

Back then we called ourselves Kitchener’s Mob; back then we were known as a tough lot

Hip hip hooray. We’re off to fight the Hun, and bloody well have our way with them onto victory.

Cheers! I shouted to the boys of Sir John’s tavern. Cheers to your ladies too.

The ladies, God bless them, will wait, I add with a wink. Britain needs us now instead

Making the rounds is a war across the Channel that needs to be won!

Lord Kitchener says he needs fightin’ men! I bellow with the fervor of a newlywed

Just then a wanker seated on a stool shouts, you may feel giddy now, talking like war is fun

But have you given any thought to the notion of finding yourself shot, and then waking up dead?

Dismissing the old wanker, I add: In a pinch, when tossed an unpleasant task, I’m your man!

Knowing full well that the Daily Mirror reported a swift end to the Kaiser’s plan

Never to hang back, I am!

I remember bragging. I could brag as well as any self-respecting braggart can.

O’ how confident I was, about the prospects of getting a lead on those low-spirited types.

My God, I was a fecking eejit back then

Mostly pride I suppose and a tad bit of folly

The same measure of arrogance common among many untested young men

Who view military service as a means and an opportunity

Nary thought about the possibility some bloke might bring my life to a premature end.

With my chest puffed like a thickset Starling, I enlisted in the army before conscripted

Still, keen on treading off to war, chatting up invincibility, and believing what the news reported.

My poor Mum. She insisted my thinking was daft, arguing that war is criminally vile

It worried her sick she said, that the war would return her son was no guarantee

Every third day, she’d light a candle at St. Peters Church, praying for me to postpone going to war for a while

I understand how you feel I kindly tell her. I’m going because it is my duty.

Toting an old cane suitcase off to war, I leave before breakfast and just after dawn.

Sixteen months later I pencil in a letter home: Write to me Mum before you retire to bed

Don’t forget, I like it when you tell me about how you’re feeling, knowing that I’m gone

Now you keep cheerful Mum. I remember your prayers and what else you said

Do remember me kindly to my friends. Tell them things here are fine, and that I’m getting on.

Your letters are a blessing I carry in my tunic pockets before the shooting and over the top I run

Privately I’d brood about getting a mortal wound, and there’d be no one here to mourn.

The Army’s General Order, “To hell with casualties. This is our strategy however old”

They tell the men with no remorse, knowing that a soldier does what he is told.

In the veteran's home by the fireplace, a grey whiskery grin hoists across my conscience

I remember a few of my mates and in particular their nickname

Decent fellows. Pals I viewed mostly as blessed with gentlemanlike looks and promise

Burgie, Archie, Chesism, and I can’t forget the footballer in the group, Maggs

Then there was Thomas from Sussex, poor slight, and bespectacled Thomas

Called by the captain to be a runner he was.

Had a dirty time of it right off, including up until he disappeared

A mortar shell exploded near him, barely minutes on the job

With bated breath, we waited. After a thick cloud of ashen dirt and black iron cleared

Providence tallied another, the latest to be pinched from Kitchener’s Mob.

My eyes fatigue staring at the fireplace, which disengages the brain to drift and amble

Recalled is an event soon after I sewed on corporal stripes, one my mind wishes to unpack

0728, the men are at stand-to, huddled mostly in line anxiously at the trench parapet

I observe Fritz’s remote trench and the sun reflecting off steel bayonets inviting our attack

Already in a flap about machine gun fire and shelling that subjugates my waking thought

I’m ordered to shoot any of our soldiers in the fire trench who gets cold feet and holds himself back.

Yells from the German trenches taunt us. Their cheers tie my stomach in a Gordian knot

The goading is so raucous, that I compare it to a bevy of drunks attending a football game

We charge directly at gunfire from rows of trenches between no man’s land and Camelot

For God and King, I witnessed firsthand the tolerance that men have to kill and to maim.

Fix bayonets. A simple mindless action, just as I was taught

Yes, sergeant. What was it like? Were you scared of going over the top? How’d you maintain?

Kill him! A man with whom I am personally unfamiliar, yet in my rifle sight he is caught

Set aside soldier all that you believe is fair, admit this is war, and war triggers behaviour in men that would normally be judged insane.

Bombardments attack from afar, combined with strafing bursts from mortar fire

God willing one of these blasted shells doesn’t carry my number plate, and strikes too near

Or perchance I’m fallen by a goodnight kiss delivered by a well-positioned German sniper

O’ how my brain hemorrhages with possibilities when heartened by a fortnight of fear.

Enemy airships harass, threatening death when dropping their bombs from overhead

I tuck into my dugout to outlast the explosions and then praise God in review

Little rest and less sleep are standard as I pray for the next day, and not wake up dead.

All the while, the Seargent orders we devoice the wounded men who moan while poised helplessly tangled in barbwire, mere yards away.

The army boosts morale by doling the lads an occasional cup of tea and a ration of rum

Mail call is how to lift the spirit of most soldiers. Read those letters aloud, the homesick insist

We don’t rightly care to whom the letters are written, or frankly who they are from

I fancy receiving a parcel that includes a razor, peppermints, or anything edible and moist

It still amazes me how wounded memories accompany military service, each as endearing a prick as they come.

Nerve-wracked senses take their turn boasting intolerance for people, noise, and stench

So, I’m assigned to a working party cleaning latrines knee-deep in muck from rainstorms

Beyond most enemy range, I return to decent spirits keen on occupying the support trench

Where rifles and bullets are replaced by picks and shovels for the burial of faceless uniforms.

I survived the war with a Silver War Badge to show, and 52 shillings and sixpence in pay

Awarded upon my medical discharge for honourable military service

Drank away the money but wore the badge nearly every day

Looked for the badge on the lapel of other blokes, as if my search had a laudable purpose.

After discharge in 1916, my interests settled on the simple; I wanted to take what would be

I’d be known in town as a civilian if I had my druthers, and not a Tommy or a footslogger

Footing it to my job one damp morning, minding my affairs, a canary approached me

Without so much as a peep, she reached out and handed me a pocket-size white feather.

Being a sport about it, I viewed the encounter as a pretty girl giving me something for free

Only later did I discover the feather’s meaning, still I kept it all these years as a testament

A souvenir of a time in my life that might’ve been different, had I heeded my Mum’s plea

And not some stranger’s brilliant idea, that led me to decide on military enlistment

May I trouble you for a second cup of tea?

My brain need only blink these days, and the memory of wartime service is revived

Images burst like flashbulbs behind my eyes, ranging from the upsetting to the splendid

And a somber voice, indistinct yet familiar, emerges to enquire why I survived.

It queries about the Pals I cheered to enlist with me, and where was I when they died

Again, the nightmare, and again my mates are exhumed, Thomas, Maggs, and Archie

Their faces materialize and stare cheerlessly at me. I shudder until I blubber inside

Why them and not me?

Why did these mates die young men, and I survived?

I grapple with the repetitiveness, and how many times I must offer them an apology.

©2018 Bill Canepa

Footsteps

They come for me, somehow, I know

Simpatico.

I still have need; I still remember want

This isn’t how I am supposed to go

Simpatico.

My eyes attempt but cannot blink

Cold fills this space between unearthly shadow

Simpatico.

Praise academia. I believe in academics

Religion is a travesty, a cult, a mind-numbing placebo

Simpatico.

Why then do you want me? Take your hands off me

Don’t sacrifice this unspoiled moment of chaste ego

Simpatico.

These footsteps are determined, then apprehend

I was wrong, I’m sorry, I beg you! Infiltrator! Let go!

Simpatico.

A castaway lost beneath the body of water

A soul that drowns without ever exercising veto

Simpatico.

© 2024 Bill Canepa

She lights up the room

Purposefully and barefaced

Indifferent to nightlife, donning a posture suitable for exposed shoulders.

The air fuels her tightly-fit gown—the color of Indian corn.

Like a curved banister, her hips gracefully escort your eyes, long after you pass

Her notoriety is on spectacle; agile talents she brings to brighten the display.

A stage performer

Disposed to wanton spontaneity, employed for a time at a cabaret.

Hers is a dance made scalable, an acquisition for the patron’s desire

A rhythm naked of words, taught by the ancients and rehearsed for centuries

Anonymous—she bribes the imagination

Alone

The kind of alone you feel, when most afraid.

You watch

Her physique, amorously tone, leaves a larcenous taste in your mind

As if tethered discretely to outside her open bedroom window

Enamored, the voyeur continues, not the slightest unnerved.

Watching her practice an Island dance routine, her next ballerina pirouette

A pose that is sometimes hypnotic, sometimes immobile; the allure is always the same.

Cavorting is one of many enticing endowments. Radiant, a foretaste of incandescence

Her gradual cadence rivals a narcotic, administered by loose ends and twists

Predictably untamed—a jungle predator

Masterful

A primitive rumba choreographed for yours, for theirs, and for everyone's impromptu pleasure.

Your eyes speak but fail to overstate the monologue seen living in her exotic expression

Dripping perspiration, her dance renews with slaloms upon slaloms of sensual fluidity

Shortened breaths accompany the ease with which she escapes into another consciousness

Effortless frolic—a single weave of yarn trapped inside a zealous summer breeze.

Her arms stretch overhead—surrendering to the moment

Higher and more exaggerated, with black-painted fingertips straight into the air

On tiptoes, her body spasms, then recoils, as if alarmed by some threat of discovery.

Her charm regenerates, and for as long as you continue to watch, her restless body burns.

Gaze for an additional moment, and you may see beyond her limber backside

Watch

Observe this disproportionate shadow in play, bewildered and elusively raw

Shameless

Despite the impulse to perhaps extinguish, despite the mood of an unnamed master

Silently outspoken, the consummate performer; her reflection in the mirror reveals the ordinariness of a single candle flame.

©2015 Bill Canepa

My young child is dead

The anguish I feel is unbearable.

Don’t tell me you know my heart because you don’t

The void inside is so deep—darkness is the only light

Lines assault my eyes and burrow ’round the mouth; thoughts are besieged

So unyielding the feeling

When refreshed with cold water, using a towel to wipe becomes a bother

O how I yearn for the strength to leave, without ever having to step outside.

It is people right now I have no stomach for

Their tearless stares steal what little peace I have to cling

I wish; I wish—o how I wish I could leave

Take me; take me to someplace far away, I don’t care where

Why is it that if I want to leave so badly, my mind must struggle so?

Shortness of breath I—I can’t bear it much longer

The stench of sameness hovers in this room, like an obese cloud

Locked up—confined with no ventilation, no window

Dreary grey walls, four cement block walls, filthy smoke-stained walls.

Why did this happen?

Where is my child?

Bring me my child; don’t you realize she needs her father?

I need to be with her, to hold her; we need to be together…

I want to look for her; I need to look for her

I need her to know I am here

I want to call her name again

She just might hear me this time

I wish; I wish she could hear me this time

Christ, what if she is unable to speak?

What if I can’t hear her little cry?

I haven’t given up, and in ways, I guess I have

I should—no; I need to look for her

I try, but each step stops short of reaching the correct door.

Why must people insist I hear their sorrow?

Why do they send apologetic cards that recite contrite condolences?

Don’t they realize it only reminds me of my loss?

The ignorant morons.

I give up

I’ve got nothing left; I’m spent

Take me now; I’m ready to go where I can be at peace

Where falling asleep for a very long time is possible

I’m exhausted; I’m deathly tired

What in Christ’s name am I wearing?

Barefoot with a flannel jacket zipped up unnaturally under the chin

Unshaven and barely washed

My fingernails are clouded with dirt and oil

They never used to be kept this poorly

I don’t like how I look; in fact, I’m disgusting.

Over there is my backyard

Over there, you can see it…look again

There it is, that’s right…yes, you see it too

It is so beautiful.

I would recline across a chaise lounge in my backyard, under the warm sun

Familiar, having spent earlier in the day pruning bushes and raking leaves

Quiet, except for the distant play of neighborhood children.

My body might turn, as my eyes drift in the direction of their noise

The tall redwood fence I see, encloses my spacious yard

I hadn’t noticed before, how shabby it’s become

How the once virile timber posts lean lazily in an unneighborly direction.

The fence has the appearance it’s lost all courage, to stand decent

And the dog-eared pickets—far too many appear weathered with broken ends

A passerby might notice the fence boards no longer hold hands as before.

Should temptation take my fingers, and slide them along the wooden grain

Not so gently against the face of one of these boards, as if inclined to caress

My fingers if pulled abruptly away, would take a splinter back with them

See, my fingers are no different from yours.

My young child is dead, and her loss lives to remind me

She is not coming back

Neither remorse, zealous prayer, nor passage of time will change that fact

Tricks to entice you really, nothing more; I know because I have tried each

And each has agreed to fail me.

I’m damned it seems

To a place no scientific person believes exists

A place beyond comprehension

A place, I am convinced is real.

I feel its angry flames scald the underside of my naked feet

Others, whom I haven’t met, I sense are nearby

Their wails frighten me, and I am helpless to stop their advance.

They are calling now, some more persistently, and most all from the dark

I am certain this place is misery

And here, is my punishment for an eternity.

©2013 Bill Canepa

Consumed with murder, my thoughts roil

A simple killing, nothing extraordinary, nothing with much spilled blood

Authorities must neither suspect nor pursue me as a person of interest

Despite my apparent lack of remorse.

It’s irrelevant that my deed favors anyone besides myself

I’m disposed to rid myself of this menace once and for all

The purge of a malignancy has festered too long behind my heart.

I shall free my ears of its wretched voice

I shall free my eyes of its vile look

I shall free myself of its smothering presence.

My lungs fill to capacity with the thought, and immerse in the fresh air

Crisp and welcoming as an island sunrise.

The wherewithal I have, presents no problem

There is an abundance of opportunity

To commit the crime and not suffer consequences

To plot and then carry out the perfect murder.

Isn’t it wonderful?

Do I have the nerve?

Am I a cold-blooded murderer?

Alas, if not for the courage of conscience

If not for the want of a blackened heart

I would kill my mother’s surgeon in a snap.

Tonight, human frailty sits at the head of the table

And again, dines as my master.

©2023 Bill Canepa

In a world where everyone is alike, you find no individuality, no reference from which to compare. There is no dissimilarity to distinguish one person from the next. One skin pigment, one language, and everyone answers to their own one-syllable surname. Embryo development is restricted without random probability to the same genetic makeup; a single DNA code with identical exposure to the environment and nutritional influence, whether or not that influence manifests inside the womb. There is a single chemical marker with no unique human characteristic. One set of fingerprints; one distinct set of footprints. From the day of birth, every person in this world is congregated into a monochromatic community. Gray is the only color not forbidden. Allegiance to the preservation of one Order is the culture. Originality is futile. Freedom is a meritless expression without definition. Individualistic utterances are outlawed. No evidence exists that anyone is treated differently, rather, everyone and everything is a reproduction—a mirror image, a clone. Cognitive processes are a perversion not tolerated. Taught is a single viewpoint about life and how it must be lived. Teachings discourage critical ideas or opinions. Education is drawn solely from the pages of a unique book presided over by the Leader. Single-mindedness controls policymaking. Obedience to the prevailing rule of law is compulsory. Media is a collective noun deprived of intellect; it communicates using one channel; one call letter, with technology to broadcast the same message every day for one hour. Static is the only emotion. Sex occurs for procreation scheduled only once a year. Spontaneity and genius are banned for the collective good. There is one model religion and one faith. There is a single marketplace to obtain the same ration of food, a liter of water, the same clothing to wear, and to receive the lone standard of grooming. People congregate to eat together and sleep at an agricultural cooperative overseen by the Order. Whether food or activity, both must be certified as officially acceptable. Meals and accommodations do not vary among the masses. Every person owns one blanket equivalent in size, texture, and capability; everyone drinks from an identical tin cup. Libraries and universities are replaced by single-story complexes where a person preauthorized to travel can temporarily lodge for one night. People walk at the same pace; no one acts in a hurry; no one stops to look up. There is no clock, no timepiece to remind a person she is early or he is late. There is no music to compose or play, no melody to hear, no song to sing or inspire dance. No one knows how to tell a story, much less recite a nursery rhyme. Only memories from the prior day exist. There is no such thing as a couple—it is strictly forbidden, and the future is limited to one day at a time. People are born, age organically, and then die. This is the natural course of things, without deviation. There is no illness to treat because when it is diagnosed, the stricken is immediately removed from society, and then relocated where the expectation is they will expire alone. There is no ceremony to mourn their passing or final respects to pay. Contempt for these laws is not tolerated. Noncompliance results in the accused’s immediate execution or banishment to a dark place underground where their flesh and bone are reduced to an ecological state. Acknowledgment of their existence is then eradicated in unification with the Order’s precepts. Paramount is the sustainment of an orderly society that punishes dissentients, denies maleficence, and proclaims “The World Order is Love.”

©2023 Bill Canepa

The rain has ceded, hoisted away by a frigid wind

In its wake, the wool clothing I wear swells with the wet it now carries.

Taking the sleeve of my soaked tunic, I wipe sloppily across my eyes

And squeeze off a blink, then another

Until my sight, no longer muted, howls into the landscape of grey stench.

Departed are the tall trees from earlier, replaced by craters carved into the ground

Lots of craters, too many craters

Spilling mates from their bowels, mixed with dirty water

Stagnant they lay in an awful condition.

My hobnail boots sink in the muck as I stumble getting around their bodies

Without direction, I’m lost

Fear of being alone settles across my mind like a tule fog

And, my ears continue to toll a nothingness

“Where am I?”

“Wake up, you daydreaming fool,” shouts the lieutenant.

“Are you the only soldier not to hear the trench whistle?

You’re holding up our platoon from charging!

Now, get your arse up the ladder and over the parapet

Or, you’ll be shot on the spot for cowardice in battle

That’s an order!

Hell, I may bloody well shoot you myself.

Go, Go, Go!”

©2023 Bill Canepa

My young child is dead

The anguish I feel is unbearable.

Don’t tell me you know my heart because you don’t

The void inside is so deep—darkness is the only light

Lines assault my eyes and burrow ’round the mouth; thoughts are besieged

So unyielding the feeling

When refreshed with cold water, using a towel to wipe becomes a bother

O how I yearn for the strength to leave, without ever having to step outside.

It is people right now I have no stomach for

Their tearless stares steal what little peace I have to cling

I wish; I wish—o how I wish I could leave

Take me; take me to someplace far away, I don’t care where

Why is it that if I want to leave so badly, my mind must struggle so?

Shortness of breath I—I can’t bear it much longer

The stench of sameness hovers in this room, like an obese cloud

Locked up—confined with no ventilation, no window

Dreary grey walls, four cement block walls, filthy smoke-stained walls.

Why did this happen?

Where is my child?

Bring me my child; don’t you realize she needs her father?

I need to be with her, to hold her; we need to be together…

I want to look for her; I need to look for her

I need her to know I am here

I want to call her name again

She just might hear me this time

I wish; I wish she could hear me this time

Christ, what if she is unable to speak?

What if I can’t hear her little cry?

I haven’t given up, and in ways, I guess I have

I should—no; I need to look for her

I try, but each step stops short of reaching the correct door.

Why must people insist I hear their sorrow?

Why do they send apologetic cards that recite contrite condolences?

Don’t they realize it only reminds me of my loss?

The ignorant morons.

I give up

I’ve got nothing left; I’m spent

Take me now; I’m ready to go where I can be at peace

Where falling asleep for a very long time is possible

I’m exhausted; I’m deathly tired

What in Christ’s name am I wearing?

Barefoot with a flannel jacket zipped up unnaturally under the chin

Unshaven and barely washed

My fingernails are clouded with dirt and oil

They never used to be kept this poorly

I don’t like how I look; in fact, I’m disgusting.

Over there is my backyard

Over there, you can see it…look again

There it is, that’s right…yes, you see it too

It is so beautiful.

I would recline across a chaise lounge in my backyard, under the warm sun

Familiar, having spent earlier in the day pruning bushes and raking leaves

Quiet, except for the distant play of neighborhood children.

My body might turn, as my eyes drift in the direction of their noise

The tall redwood fence I see, encloses my spacious yard

I hadn’t noticed before, how shabby it’s become

How the once virile timber posts lean lazily in an unneighborly direction.

The fence has the appearance it’s lost all courage, to stand decent

And the dog-eared pickets—far too many appear weathered with broken ends

A passerby might notice the fence boards no longer hold hands as before.

Should temptation take my fingers, and slide them along the wooden grain

Not so gently against the face of one of these boards, as if inclined to caress

My fingers if pulled abruptly away, would take a splinter back with them

See, my fingers are no different from yours.

My young child is dead, and her loss lives to remind me

She is not coming back

Neither remorse, zealous prayer, nor passage of time will change that fact

Tricks to entice you really, nothing more; I know because I have tried each

And each has agreed to fail me.

I’m damned it seems

To a place no scientific person believes exists

A place beyond comprehension

A place, I am convinced is real.

I feel its angry flames scald the underside of my naked feet

Others, whom I haven’t met, I sense are nearby

Their wails frighten me, and I am helpless to stop their advance.

They are calling now, some more persistently, and most all from the dark

I am certain this place is misery

And here, is my punishment for an eternity.

©2013 Bill Canepa