THE WOUNDED

 

 

THE WOUNDED

 

A blue sky can bring me to cheer.

Come inside, I am waiting here.

You can soften the load

of troubles, I am told.

Please brighten the cold, dreary day.

Take me to places far away.

Heal my wounded pride.

I need your fire at my side.

Neil Leist

Neil Leist

 

Yesterday, I met a famous photographer, Tony Vaccaro, who had photographed my brother in 1981. It was a year before my brother’s car accident. After two years in a coma, Neil passed. I’m more determined than ever to write a book on my brother’s life. Tony took photos of Presidents Kennedy, Obama, and Nixon. Famous stars like Sophia Lauren. Artists like Picasso and Georgia O’Keefe. And my brother, Neil Leist. Neil had just become the CEO and President of American Bakeries. He made his fortune in the commodities markets and was on his way to the top. The accident ended his dreams and mine.

This isn’t the photo taken by Tony Vaccaro. This photograph is the last one I have of my brother. 

CRY IF YOU WANT TO

 

 

CRY IF YOU WANT TO

In the dark of night

when others sleep,

I sit in the woods

and count my sheep.

My heart hangs heavy

as I think of you.

I refuse to cry

if I dream of you.

They have told me

to allow my tears to fall.

I shut my eyes

and fall asleep in a ball.

The wind whistles through the trees.

I open my eyes to a sight.

You sit on the grass facing me,

your eyes shining in the dim light.

“Cry if you want to,”

you whisper.

“But I don’t want to,”

I whisper.

The dawn lights the dark sky.

I yawn and stretch my limbs.

My eyes are bright and dry

since I’ve refused to cry.

READ ME A TALE

 

 

Read me a tale, grandfather,

of battles and dead bodies.

Turn the pages, grandfather,

of the book of horrors.

Tell me more stories, grandfather,

of evil armies and sadness.

I will close my eyes, grandfather,

and wish the darkness away.