Graveyard Verses

An effigy atop a stone has fixed its gaze on me
Itinerant intruder in this city of the dead
As growing stillness slowly stifles all thoughts in my head
'Til I can almost hear the soft, sepulchral inquiry
Why do you come to such a place to spend an afternoon?

I know the answer as I walk past graves with flowers strewn.
While noting markers lined in rows or clustered into groups
I hover over history to see who slumbers where
A founding father, matriarch, mass-murderer or mayor
While epitaphs illegible, like missing combat troops

Demand imagination more than those that clearly tell.
I'm beckoned by the symmetry of tombstones great and small
With angels capped, whose silent trumpets sound the final call
Proud monuments and mausoleums striving to excel
Alongside sunken, crumbling markers grappling with the vines.

Still wondering and wandering, I ponder fate's designs
And grieve with all young parents, widows, widowers and friends
Who came to visit frequently, until they came no more
Because the sight of loved ones' graves grew harder to endure.
So seeking no acknowledgement, I am the one who sends

Those lasting tributes, last regards and prayers for fleeting souls.
And finally, I feel a peace that can not be obtained
Through mortal slumber, quiet walks or thoughts of riches gained.
I envy those no longer plagued by superficial goals
Unburdened by those worldly woes that life so blithely doles.

We, the forsaken
(a villanelle)

Our names and faces no one can recall.
Beneath the sodden earth wherein we lie
Within the confines of a crumbling wall

We have one last request to ask of all
Who pass our way, to simply pass on by.
Our names and faces no one can recall

Our very presence clearly must appall
Most all of you, who will not cast an eye
Within the confines of a crumbling wall.

So do not deign to bring us wreaths or fall
Upon your knees to pray and then to cry
Our names and faces no one can recall.

The weeds are thick, the grass uncut and tall
And dead the trees that strove to touch the sky
Within the confines of a crumbling wall.

No longer comes the widow in her shawl.
A simple fact that no one can deny:
Our names and faces no one can recall
Within the confines of a crumbling wall.

Haunting Haikus

From my narrow cell
I wish that I'd grasped at dreams
When I could still grasp

Shielded from all storms
I long for the sensation
Of rain on my face

How she would have loved
A bouquet of roses then
More than a wreath now

Spirits and specters
Are not found in the graveyard
Only dirt and bones

Foolish epitaphs
Vainly issue a challenge
They can never win

Lasting respects (a sestina)

The father once again has come to mourn
And offer prayers to speed her soul's ascent.
He mutters invocations as he bows
His head and stares directly at the ground
Oblivious to wind and whirling leaves
He reminisces as it starts to rain.

Quite soft at first, it sprinkles the terrain
And summons mist that lingers in the morn
And hovers over browning grass and leaves
Olfactory remembrances, a scent
He smelled that day they laid her in the ground
Beneath the poplar's overhanging boughs.

Remembering the eulogy, he bows
His head and thinks how God will come to reign
While lives that should have lasted long are ground
Like pebbles into dust and parents mourn
While all the while still nodding their assent
Their loved one flies to heaven as she leaves.

His shiny shoes now covered with dead leaves
Beneath the poplar's overhanging boughs
He can not but resent what fate has sent
But as a man, he has been taught to rein
In his emotions, and to never mourn
In public, and be strong, and hold his ground.

He feels like he is sinking in the ground
That each time that he visits her he leaves
A part of him that stays behind to mourn
Beneath the poplar's overhanging boughs
Oblivious to chilly wind and rain.
He takes small comfort in her soul's ascent

But gives to God what God to him has sent.
At times he envies those beneath the ground
Forever sheltered from that somber reign
Of drenching sorrow which holds sway and leaves
The living lingering beneath the boughs
Of poplar trees upon a misty morn.

The sun's ascent declares the end of morn
And towards the soggy ground the father bows
The rain has stopped, a single rose he leaves.

Here lies Jack, in a small wooden box
Under six feet of dirt, sod and rocks
Mourners utter no breath
Of his horrible death
But the specter of suffering mocks.

Kate was never the virtuous kind
To ignite burning lust she designed
Though her morals were lax
Let us not make attacks
Rather hope that some peace she will find.

Grace was 99 at her life's end
And to heaven her soul did ascend
But her funeral rites
Oh, the saddest of sights!
There was nobody left to attend.

Once again, fate has bitterly stung
And has snuffed out a life much too young
As we gathered around
She was laid in the ground
While lugubrious dirges we sung.

Spider on a tombstone

This tiny vermin has a lot of nerve
To so unceremoniously crawl
Across this polished granite, which is all
Some poor decedent has left now to serve

To keep his fading memory alive.
This shiny stone, assaulted by the rain
Disgraced by feathered folks time and again
Attacked by an arachnid who should strive

To crawl around it, at the very least.
I've half a mind to crush him with my shoe
But this would further desecrate the stone

To splay the essence of this little beast.
So I suppose there's nothing I can do
But ask him, please, to leave the dead alone.

Five Tankas

Just six feet of dirt
Separating you from me
Like the nearest star
You are always there, and yet
Utterly unreachable.

Do not weep for me
I am the apple that falls
Harboring new seeds
I am grapes plucked from the vine
Turned to a fine libation.

Forever enshrined
In pseudo-reliquaries
Their manner of death
-Violence, pestilence or time-
Makes little difference now.

I stand in the yard
Among graves, grass and granite
Straining hard to hear
Those spectral supplications
But there is only silence.

If they could but stir
From their eternal slumber
For merely a glimpse
Of their erstwhile surroundings-
No, better that they should sleep.

Where are you now, Colonel John Reed?

Where are you now, Colonel John Reed?
Is your grave tended lovingly by grizzled veterans
Who stoop to leave you a wreath
Or to pluck away an errant dandelion
That, like a stubborn stray, keeps returning?

Where are you now, Colonel John Reed?
Do you frolic in some stately, spectral hall
A Valhalla for Continental soldiers
Where, each evening, you return victorious
After having once more routed the Redcoats, and shine your saber?

Where are you now, Colonel John Reed?
Do you lie near the edge of a woods
Underneath weeds, crabgrass and thorn bushes
The last testimonial to your role in American independence
Savagely-uprooted by iconoclastic vandals?

Where are you now, Colonel John Reed?
Is your name in the history books
Where your courage and leadership
Are memorialized for future generations
Who may never open those books
Or from whom the names "Saratoga" and "Valley Forge" elicit blank stares?

Where are you now, Colonel John Reed?
Did your men regard you as a paragon of patriotism?
Did they salute you and call you "sir" to your face, and "scoundrel" to your back?
Do you rejoice with the Father and bask forever in the eternal light
Or have wanton acts of wartime barbarity consigned you to eternal night?

Where are you now, Colonel John Reed?

The raven in the graveyard
(a pantoum)

This strange, sepulchral spectacle to me does not seem right
They fill this place with stones and sculptures honoring the dead
Who lie in boxes underground, forever out of sight
I wish that they would plant another tree for me, instead

They fill this place with stones and sculptures honoring the dead
Whom they so carefully preserve, then dump into the ground
I wish that they would plant another tree for me, instead
They waste their time on those oblivious to sight and sound

Whom they so carefully preserve, then dump into the ground
The mourners come with rosy wreaths to offer the deceased
They waste their time on those oblivious to sight and sound
I watch this graveyard grow and grow, the numbers have increased

The mourners come with rosy wreaths to offer the deceased
Who lie in boxes underground, forever gone from sight
I watch this graveyard grow and grow, the numbers have increased
This strange, sepulchral spectacle to me does not seem right.

Skeletons in the closet
(a pantoum)

Sealed away forever with the closing of a lid
Long-forgotten secrets strewn with dreams whose time has past
Bound with broken promises, lie moldering amid
Buried bones in boxes, in a yard that has amassed

Long-forgotten secrets strewn with dreams whose time has past.
Strollers in this grove of graves walk over much more than
Buried bones in boxes, in a yard that has amassed
Sepulchers containing what was and what might have been.

Strollers in this grove of graves walk over much more than
Cold cadavers resting in their horizontal cells
Sepulchers containing what was and what might have been-
Echoes of Elysium or private little hells.

Cold cadavers resting in their horizontal cells
Bound with broken promises, lie moldering amid
Echoes of Elysium or private little hells
Sealed away forever with the closing of a lid.

360°
(a ballade)

I'll leave no flowers at her grave, because this is a lie
A dark deception that descends like fog upon a lake
No need to mourn or shed a tear, because she did not die
Another hour or two will bring the breeze to gently take
Away this foggy, fatal vision, leaving in its wake
The morning bright, the water clear and gleaming in the sun.
Or possibly this granite stone was placed here by mistake.
In any case, I don't accept that death has somehow won.

How selfish of her to desert me, knowing full well I
Could never face the world alone, could never fully shake
The shroud of sorrow from my soul, and so I must rely
On disappearing memories and reveries to make
Amends for missing company that stirs my heart to break.
And yet, I must not fold to fate, lest I become undone
Though others in relentless mourning their whole lives forsake.
In any case, I don't, except that death has somehow won.

Futility is the result of trying to deny.
Each life that comes into the world is like a single flake
Descending to oblivion while falling from the sky
To melt away with all the rest when spring shall overtake.
I miss her in the day, and many nights I am awake
Seeking solace in the stars and somehow finding none.
Some turn their backs on former faith, insisting God is fake
In any case, I don't, except that death has somehow won.

I think that this is just a dream, perhaps a stomach ache
Produced some deep disturbance that has caused my mind to run
Amok with evil images. A lesser man would quake.
In any case, I don't accept that death has somehow won.

Sisyphus at Bull Run
(A Chant Royal)

From a forced, fitful slumber they strain to arise
With the darkness and dirt of the grave all around.
After all these years, ignorant of their demise
Their young souls full of fight, that would burst from the ground.
They were stopped in their tracks by a rebel force keen
As they gathered like storm clouds above fields of green.
Eager crowds from the city had followed to see
The rash rebels run, routed, and Beauregard flee.
Still the words of dead generals ring in dead ears:
"Send them all back in boxes to Robert E. Lee!"
In the flash of a cannon, the world disappears.

Bright blue uniforms tattered, and no one is wise
To the absence of motion, of light and of sound
Since reality neither appears nor applies
To an underground army in death's dressings bound.
Still, an iciness grips them, as cold hands unseen
Wrap their foul, phantom fingers around the pristine
Patriotic young spirits still yearning to be
The defenders of Union, and pride of the free.
But they slough off uneasiness, banish their fears
Knowing nothing of destiny's dreadful decree.
In the flash of a cannon, the world disappears.

Apprehension exhumed speaks astonishing lies
Whispered over the phantom reports that resound
Over landscapes surreal, under false summer skies
That would fade in an instant were truth ever found.
But the damp cloth of death often wipes the mind clean
Of that fierce, final blow, leaving one in between
Realms of substance and shadow, to cling like a tree
To a desolate heath strewn with weeds and debris.
Resolute that their duty not fall in arrears
But unable to fight and forbidden to flee.
In the flash of a cannon, the world disappears.

Somber columns of stones greet the visitors' eyes
But an upsurge of sentiment swells from the ground
Stifled patriotism, and rage that belies
The initial tranquility seemingly found.
And the living grow quiet, attempting to glean
Further psychic impressions that hover unseen.
There are courage and hope, and the smallest degree
Of repressed trepidation, a silent, last plea.
But the dead can keep secrets for thousands of years
Secrets locked behind doors to which none have the key.
In the flash of a cannon, the world disappears.

Still the dead soldiers dream of their final goodbyes
To their mothers and sisters and wives who surround
Them with sad valedictions and watery eyes-
Then a mournful farewell from a faithful old hound.
With their guns locked and loaded, physiques hard and lean
A fierce phalanx of Federals heads toward the scene
Of the rebels' last stand, for the Yankees agree
That the South's Armageddon will take place at three.
Fire and smoke fill the air as the enemy nears
But serene is the creek that traverses the lea.
In the flash of a cannon, the world disappears.

Cycled ad infinitum, until at last the
Uninformed, restless souls heed death's final decree.
The Assumption of silence, as ancient veneers
Faintly flicker and vanish, thus setting them free.
In the flash of a cannon, the world disappears.

Why Not a Poem of the Grave?
(a triolet)

Why not a poem of the grave?
Why should we such a verse eschew?

My proud, prolific pen will brave
Why not? -a poem of the grave.

We must return that which He gave
That life bestowed on me and you

Why not a poem of the grave?
Why should we such a verse eschew?

I saw a spark streak through the sky
(a triolet)

I saw a spark streak through the sky
A tiny, dim and distant dot

There goes another soul, thought I.
I saw a spark streak through the sky

And then I wondered, when I die
Will poets pick up pens to jot:

"I saw a spark streak through the sky
A tiny, dim and distant dot?"

Godmother
(a rondel)

I could not bring myself to weep
Ashamed I stood, my eyes still dry
Until at last, the mourning sky
Fulfilled the vow I could not keep

And roused the thunder from its sleep,
Dispensing proxy tears from high.
I could not bring myself to weep
Ashamed I stood, my eyes still dry

My sorrow buried six feet deep.
I loved her none the less, yet I
Despite a most concerted try
Could not evoke a sob, or peep
I could not bring myself to weep.

Memento mori

The cover of settling sleep
Always more a diaphanous veil than a swaddling blanket
Is drawn away
Not by a pale, ghoulish hand
But a soft, silent breath
Which whispers across my face:
Memento mori.

At the horizon I see
That perennial game of hide-and-seek played out
And I return
To irrelevant reckonings
When I hear a muted murmur
Floating in the air.
Memento mori.

I have a great day
But one that is somehow tempered by a simple lesson in geometry
For I know
That I am not a circle
But a line segment.

Will-o-wisp
(a rondeau)

Shimmering on, souls not quite gone
Dance in the dark until the dawn.
Some claim it's swamp gas, but I know
What science says isn't always so.
These sparkling specters seem the spawn

Of charcoal night, that lingers on
When lights are dimmed and shades are drawn.
These spirits neither stay nor go, shimmering on.

That threshold they are trapped upon
A living limbo, leaves them sans
Salvation or perdition, oh
A sad and scary evening show, shimmering on.

Musings on Mortality
(a rondeau redoublé)

Years slowly settle on us, like the dust
In layers first invisible, then white
Borne by the unsuspecting air, it must
Upon unwary surfaces alight.

Quite cognizant I am of coming night
But trepidation's given way to trust
That life has been a blessing, not a blight.
Years slowly settle on us, like the dust.

Time causes stone to scale and steel to rust
It flattens mountains with a gentle might
And coaxes glaciers with a steady thrust.
In layers first invisible, then white

The snows of time will bury me from sight.
But winter is a lovely season just
Like all its sister seasons in their right
Borne by the unsuspecting air, it must

Evoke mortality with every gust.
The spirits of the ages who unite
To fill the heavens with a reverent hush
Upon unwary surfaces alight

While those who walked the earth or soared in flight
Sleep soundly deep beneath the hallowed crust.
I see the silhouette of death, a slight
Surreptitious shadow filled with lust.
Years slowly settle on us.

You say that you are not afraid

You say that you are not afraid to face the final call?
Because you are superior to all us "infidels"
Who undulate like ragged rowboats in the ocean's swells
Engulfed at last by angry seas that form a swirling pall.

Here's my take:
God forsake?
Your mistake.

Suppose the bridge of stone and steel that you will walk across
Is really made of rotting wood and decomposing rope.
So if the boards beneath your feet give way, I only hope
Your pompous days of re-born faith were not a total loss.

Caustic wit?
Live with it.
Hypocrite.

On angel's wings, you claim, you'll soar to rendez-vous with God
While all the rest of us descend to well-deserved perdition
So confident you are your sins will all receive remission.
Perhaps your wings are made of wax. Now wouldn't that be odd?

Apostate?
I debate.
Just you wait.

Cheating the Worms

Even rats with their prodigious, persistent fangs would be hard-pressed to penetrate
Two inches of concrete, reinforced with stubborn iron mesh.
And the occasional auspicious crack caused by the careless backhoe
Only leads to further disappointment: a shell of galvanized steel.

But the unkindest cut of all, if we should by some miracle
Gain ingress to that which is rightfully ours
Pungent, poisonous preservatives lurking in those inert veins
Like a rusty razorblade embedded in a caramel-coated apple.
Why do you hate us so much?

Air-tight urns with ashes interred
Present to the subterranean scavengers
Still another conundrum.
If the contents are so precious, why not keep them on your mantels beside faded photographs?
Why burn them at all?

Why dress them in their finest, style their hair and smear them with make-up
Then lock them away forever in stifling, impregnable sepulchres?
Stuff them, put them on display in your homes
Prop them up at the table, reading the paper
Or lay them out in their favorite recliners
Their lifeless fingers locked around the remote control.

Then you can truly say, "He looks so natural."
Then you can truly say, "She looks so peaceful."
Do this if you would cheat death.
Do this if you would cheat us.

Nothing Else in This World

Death is not what I fear, but I dread death denied.
When all reason has vanished, all memory gone
And when loved ones are strangers, how can I abide

That perverted existence that settles upon
The uncounted infirm, neither living nor dead?
When I plunge to the point where I need help to don

My own clothes in the morning, or get out of bed
Let me join buried brothers, benignantly spared-
Do not feed me at all if I have to be fed.

Very lucky are corpses to zombies compared.
Even ghosts are not trapped in some rickety shell.
Will I cross the bar seamlessly, or be ensnared

Forced to languish for years in a half-living hell?
Far too many I've seen, unaware of their plight
Wander lost through the halls of the places they dwell.

Days without demarcation, that blur into night
Nothing else in this world gives me more of a fright.