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Best Poems Written by Jeffrey Feghaly

Below are the all-time best Jeffrey Feghaly poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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If You Were To Ask Me the Definition of Sorrow:

I would answer by saying that it is the absence of your fathers earthshaking glance at the dawn of an unpredictable night. I would answer by saying that it is the acknowledgment of the neglected truth, that life is nothing but a series of scenes in an indisposed screenplay. And that death is the anticipated protagonist, a patient gift disgustingly disguised underneath the smiles of all that which we think brings us happiness.

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A Happy Ending

A ringing bell in the near-distance makes her delicate body tremble, as she sat on the corner of the opaquely purple stained living room sofa. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. She grew in despair of how that pattern of sound had aroused the tiny hairs on her crinkling hands. She exhales repulsively the last draft of the cigarette she just turned off. A glance at the silver-rimmed ashtray, which rests an arm’s reach away, powerfully depicts that it was one of those nights again.

She was content not too long ago. Pampered by his tender words. He was the father of the children they never had. She would name her first born Alexander. Defender of Man. They would live a joyful life, far away from the city’s lights. Far away from it all.

That day he did not pick up his gun and secure it in his holster from the smoothly sanded wooden table near the bed they shared as he went to work. That day he did not kiss her forehead, a gesture of safety, which she was so used to every morning. The silent kiss reassured her, everything will be okay and that he will be back sooner than later. That day he did not wake her up from her sleep. Not intentionally at least. That day she woke up to the sound of a bang in the near-distance of their home. That day she was surrounded with thick red. That day she understood how selfish human beings can be.

She began to shiver uncontrollably, tightly grabbing her left elbow with her right hand. She picks up a container of sky blue ovals which lay on the table in front of her next to her near-empty pack of cigarettes. She recalls what the doctor had said, “One every time you get an attack, ONE ONLY.” One never did the job, neither did five. That day she took ten. That day she slept well.

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A Personal Companion

There is a callus on my finger,
it is where my talent lives.

Growing wiser with each stroke,
it feeds on tantalizing inscriptions
-
which I meticulously sculpt
-
as I transform my inner reflections
into leaden-inked realities.

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We Are For-Against the System

Our voices will never change the system!
Never shall anyone declare that
the youth will ultimately get what they demand!

Continue filling the streets with the leaders of tomorrow
if you wish and
tell us all how well that story worked out for you…

Freedom of expression is not a necessity in this society!
Believe those words when they say
Never!
Never
Take that chance of going against the system

Slowly change the world into a better place...
You can keep trying to.
Just like every fairy-tale
you know.
Everyone wants to hold on to that little brink of hope.

That is the beautiful irony of how it really is.
A courageous Dream
always leads to
Failure!
One will never understand the splendor of truth
until you look at things in one another’s perspective.

[Now read from bottom to top]

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Freefalling

Three. Two. One. Screams of excitement, with a little bit of death in each roar. Disturbing the serenity of the big blue sky, piercing the atmosphere through a rebellious dive. I let gravity take control, putting my delicate life in her hands.


Swarm of suicidal thoughts each time he springs from the aircraft’s door. Floating in the air. Embracing the silence around him. Feeling his racing heart beats break through his rib-cage. The rush and thrill of dying always makes him contemplate the value of life. Up there, there is no worry. Up there, there is bliss.  A disapproving wife, not having locked eyes in years. Merciless children, all that remains are the photos on the living room desk. A receptionist job, growing insane from the accumulation of those counterfeited smiles. Up there, there is no worry. Up there, there is perfection. Approaching the ground, inner demons yell ‘do not pull that parachute cord!’ Rashly weighing the options in hand. What is the point in returning to a disgusting routine called life? The skin on his forehead quickly folds, his eyes are tightly shut. No reason for a man not to take his own life the way he pleases. A beeping noise from his wrist awakens him each time; at 2,500 feet the cord is cowardly pulled. With regret and pain, he reenters his home. Another promise broken, another promise made.


Freefalling into the sky, I finally understand. The ironic beauty of being, the verge of death.

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A Glance In the Past

My father recalls to me stories of his past,
gripping his fists tightly
as his faces turns gray
telling me, 
“Son it was a dark time for Lebanon”


Anxiously I continue listening 
spilling his inner suppressed memories 
“15 years… 15 years of blood and hate”


Buildings that once stood graciously in the sky
punctured by the bullets that continuously danced in midair 
Streets that were once filled with jubilant people 
now only hosted lifeless cold corpses


Men grew absent from their families
forcing women to carry lethal arms to shield their broods 
with their fingers embedded on the trigger
Lurking from street to street
in a scavenger’s hunt for vital necessities    


The excruciating smell of rot at sunrise
a mixture of decomposing human flesh and garbage 
Flooded the streets 
an endless totality of discarded wastes


After the sun departs 
the stagnant stars appear 
not a clatter can be heard on the tranquil streets


Sympathetically reaching out to my father,
removing him from the ominous nightmare he re-erected,
holding his trembling hands firmly
as I bring him to the reality of the passive present

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The 5th Stage of Grief

I prefer to feel that I have shook hands with existing with the Present; recognizing that my yesterdays will persistently tyrannize my once buoyant tomorrows.