Best Burial Mound Poems
Standing hoeing garden stones
Eyes awash with tears
As memories flood back from
More than sixty years,
To the little village churchyard
For which my dad cared
And which duty I, as a child,
So very unwillingly shared.
He dug the graves, cut the grass
Scything carefully around
Each sheared and flower strewn
Humped burial mound.
All the paths were of loose stone
Which, after ever spring self seed,
Just attracted and harboured
Endless stretches of weed,
Each year it was my job
To shim and hoe them clean
So that those spick and span paths
Matched his carefully mown green.
I was a spoiled, lazy, idle child
Complaining every single year
But dad was quietly firm in spite
Of my every tantrum and tear.
Now he comes gently back to mind
As I hoe my stones, laid for easy care.
Just for a while it’s the old churchyard
And we are both back there.
Good job done he says
As we stand side by side
And we both inspect that path
And my chest swells with pride.
And now I stand here
Leaning on my garden hoe
Thinking of things I wish I’d said
All those many years ago.
But the past is the past
And we both know it’s for the best
That I wish his memory goodbye
And let him slip gently back to rest.
I hear voices and see faces
Of warriors who died in faraway places.
Some gave their all, all gave their best.
When they were judged, all passed the test.
As I sit here alone on this bench by the lake
I wonder just what chances I’d take.
Would I show valor on fields of battle
Or would I display fear and nerves that were rattled?
Spirits still roam this hallowed ground,
So I stand and listen to every small sound.
And just as I leave I hear a faint sound
Of taps being played over each burial mound.
Written by John Posey
05/12/15
Death Penalty
Sonny Johnson’s home was on the street
Sharing space with rats who nibbled at his feet
Until he moved his blanket to the county jail
‘Cause someone said he stabbed a white female
He faced the court without a scrap of money
So no lawyer of renown defended Sonny
A jury found him guilty in two hours
And no one wondered if the fault was his or ours
No delays or stays of execution
How sweet they are, revenge and retribution
A pork chop and beans sat cooling in a bowl
While a portly priest sanctified Sonny’s soul
They strapped him to a gurney hard and fast
Two witnesses looked away, eyes downcast
Beads of sweat on Sonny’s forehead glistened
“Ain’t done the deed; how come y’all don’t listen?”
Sonny shuddered once before his heart stopped beating
Nary a soul mourned his tragic life so fleeting
With other poor men, they put him in the ground
And no stone marker graced his burial mound
Sonny’s fate isn’t hard to justify
The Holy Book supports an eye for an eye
Does anyone care how many men are taken
With the chilling chance that we may be mistaken?
In the winter of 1873, Alfred Packer was hired to guide a prospectin' trek.
In the San Juans of Colorady they'd heard of gold that they wanted to check.
Alfred claimed that in Colorady minin' camps he'd driven wagons of ore.
He guaranteed he'd show 'em the valuable stuff that they were lookin' for!
They visited sage old Chief Ouray and he warned 'em to wait 'til spring,
To cross those rugged tors, but no, they wanted to press on and do their thing!
So foolish Albert and five of the group decided to trudge on through the snow!
Of the blindin' snow, lack of grub and perilous paths, little did they know!
A few months later Packer appeared at an Indian Agency lookin' fit and well!
He said he'd been left behind due to injuries, one of many tales he was to tell!
His story changed several times sayin' one man went berserk and killed the rest!
There was evidence that cannibalism was involved but old Albert never confessed!
Packer was jailed in Saguache but later made his escape to Wyoming state!
He was nabbed and returned to Salt Lake City for a trial and sentencin' date.
"They was seven Dimmycrats in the county", pronounced the judge from the bench,
"But yah man-eatin' sunuvab**ch, yah et five of 'em, fer that yer neck'll wrench!"
Later the sentence was reduced to manslaughter and he was given forty years,
To be served at the pen in Canon City, Colorady, but no one shed any tears!
He was paroled in 1901 and moved to Denver where he hung around.
Now his molderin' bones rest in peace 'neath a grassy burial mound!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 7 in Carolyn Devonshire's "Legend" Contest - April 2011
Mossy vines served as camouflage for a decaying headstone.
The inscription is illegible, but that matters not to me.
At this centuries-old grave I place flowers and moonstone --
As requested by my ethereal savior, friend, lover, devotee.
My first visit to Gravesend was via historical daylight tour.
Another attempted escape from a dreadful loss and daily boredom.
This landmark cemetery predates America by 100 years or more.
Yearning for comfort, I sensed only a dead-strewn auditorium.
Though the feelings persisted, I dared not reveal my plight.
Breaking from the group, I chanced upon a hidden burial mound.
Sitting on a slate stone, a tweeting bird subdued my fright.
Then a silence did ensue -- and a whispering from underground.
A mist ascended in the form of a desirable, raven-haired beauty,
Who ingested my pain and angst, diluting my secrets in oblivion.
Her voice was the sweetness that called my cells to sync-duty.
She smelled of paradise and her kisses raised a dead compulsion.
Meeting clandestinely as the summer turns to fiery autumn-rust.
Medea (her name) asks to be released from her purgatorial strife
By way of dark spells, old magic and a curious blood-crystal dust.
On this Halloween night, I will transmute ghost to fleshy wife!
The ritual begins as most rituals do: serious, focused and grim.
Within the pentagram, Medea fluctuates -- in all her femaleness.
She comes to me warm and steamy. I hear a chorus, a siren hymn.
I'm enfolded in the marvelous lure of a dying-to-eat ... succubus!
August 7, 2016
Camouflage Me A Poem - Poetry Contest
HALLOWEEN
it was no bump in the night
a ghostly hand on mine caused fright
the slow click of a bicycle wheel made me tight
the wind blowing it around with eerie might
my eyes won't adjust to light
every impulse says something is not right
creeping cat paws don't touch the ground
so bizarre they make no sound
a deathly howl comes from a hound
I can not turn around
I stumble over a burial mound
and run from where the ghouls abound
Another day's sun
Lights the carpet of the earth
Where an evil that is done
Waits suspended in the dirt.
Unfortunately, the aura
That was fashioned from his life
Cannot be changed to flora
Like the flesh that now pulls tight.
He butchered all my daughters
One savage, blasphemous night.
Now I fear his poison waters
May flow farther than the site.
One day of intense tortures
I visited that grassy glade
Where the beast escaped the torches
But fell upon my blade.
Two dogs with canines blaring
Fought hard to claim some food.
The victor now lay staring --
Dead and strangely lewd.
I hastened from that burial mound
Least my shoes pick up a trace
From that moist, infected killing ground
That -- God forgive me -- I helped deface.
A soil well rested after winter`s sleep of death
Waiting anxiously to receive life`s new breath
Seeds of potentiality sown, laboriously planted
Not knowing whether fruits to them will be granted
Blind, creative forces of nature flood the earth
Soon, many a wondrous creature will be given birth
Plants and animals themselves faithfully reproduce
But a greater miracle the heavens will also induce
Phoenixes use the souls of men as a nesting ground
Their fiery selves resurrect from their burial mound
A new beginning, birth of warmth and hope in the heart
They slowly boil the blood with their alchemical art
My father worked the land with
Both horse and tractor plough.
That family way of life is past,
We are all city dwellers now.
My father and mother dead
My brother followed them on
I’m the last of that generation
And my country links are gone.
In the churchyard family graves,
Their once turfed burial mound
Unmarked by stone, are now sunk
To be level with the ground.
I use words to paint for grandchildren
Pictures of working days on the land,
Of much less complicated times:
And I know they try to understand
But i am just grandad reminiscing
When I tell of past country ways.
They try listen patiently, but
We are all connected these days.
After a while their patience goes.
They feel the call to be on line
To worlds more exciting than
That long passed one of mine.
So I dream of Fordson tractors
And the tall powerful Shire horse
And they dream of things
From their more modern source.
I wish them long and rich life
Happy and with good health,
Sad they’ll not experience my world
Once rich in everything but wealth.
One of four acorns waits in the hatcher;
is he afraid of the cold air outside?
Others around him make gains in stature
while he shows strong signs of wanting to hide.
He almost peeked out but quickly broke stride.
Found them late last summer on the bare ground.
Pocketed four of hundreds I had found.
Demolition of our woods taking place,
at home I prepared their burial mound -
castaways, comrades from wildlife's lost space.
When they’ve resurrected and grown stronger,
I dream of a tree where songbirds can roost.
Though the last acorn’s taking much longer,
his buddies gave him a much-needed boost.
Caution set aside, his strength they induced.
Heard them this morning, telling his small world,
“You can do this, push harder, come unfurled;
there is sunshine, fresh air, so much to view,”
Dancing with the wind, the three of them swirled
as we witnessed the last acorn’s breakthrough.
October 3, 2020
Sponsor: Anthony Biaanco
Contest: The Last One
The cold wet earth clings to my boots
The scent of wet soil draws memories
Visions of the past , scenes from my boyhood
Flicker in my thoughts.
Buds of sweat drips their cold journey down my spine
As I lay entranced and entrenched upon a hillside
Waiting the timeless wait for the next target
Here upon this accursed pass, we floundered
Here upon this barren land men fell dead
Friends and comrades, brothers in arms
Others still clutching their weapons
Others in muted prayer laying where they fell
Kissing the cold earth now seared in black and red
The hues of death , the shadows of fate.
Here as I await the enemy’s passage
Here as this hill may be my burial mound
But I will not shudder nor fear the dread
that fear itself rains upon me
for I was trained to be steadfast
my valor , my strength , my courage
is needed now, more than ever by my Country.
Unaware of the danger, caught in the cross-hairs
Of my scope ,the target , a general stands tall
The glow of an emblem upon his hat
Temporarily blinding, yet a clear target he still is
Slowly gripping the trigger, affixing my stance
Feeling the direction of the breeze , the scent of wet soil
Cold sweat down my spine as I gently squeeze the trigger.
The air hung swimming with dust motes,
throbbing with heat, wringing the sweat form our pores.
We walked forward through the soup of ages
over trampled grass marked by the passage of buck and doe.
The mounds rose above us massive, looming,
spirit hands brush our cheeks and pull my hair.
The Shaman shushes and shooes.
Enfolded in his arms with prayerful hearts;
following the parted, knee high grass;
moving tentatively upward.
Twin hawks fly overhead, spiraling in the tepid updraft.
An oval depression appears at the crest of the burial mound.
The Kings Mound. Dragon flies buzz
through the static charged ether.
“Naked, naked, do not profane”.
“Naked, naked," the hungry, curious, spirits chant.
“So long have we waited for a vessel of knowing.
So, long, so, long.”
She lay where the doe had lain. He sat as the buck sat vigil.
The Shaman’s eyes scanned the horizon.
The hawks continued their scout.
The sound of the Shaman's flute pierces the atmosphere.
Her pulse races to the cries of Kings.
“So, long, so long.”
Muffled moans melted with the whir of cicada.
With the final throbbing note of the flute
the distant memory of drums;
homage is paid.
She arose the bride of Kings;
blessed by the ancestors
Dawn Flower.
The bard had just penned a ballad profound
and stroking his beard, this clumsy word-hound
just spilled his last beer on pages unbound.
A marvelous monorhyme sits uncrowned.
Deluged under streams of thoughts that still hound,
I venture to guess the piece has just drowned
from rainclouds of doubt with thunderous sound
from faraway lightning seeking a ground,
Now mopping up foam, he waits to impound
damp shadowy reservoirs which redound
to poetic skill reserved and renowned,
concealed in debris, its burial mound.
Like nebulous chords which cannot be found
his poem is lost with drinks he just downed.
Can there be a way to use ultrasound
to track fickle brainstorms flitting around?
written April 5, 2012, revised August 17, 2021
Contest: Your Best Monorhyme, Host: William Kekaula
The Spectre of sex appeal by Salvador Dali 1934
On the right-hand bottom side, we see Dalí as a
child, dressed as a sailor, observing his monstrosity
I misunderstand, tell what is the plan
As I change from juvenile into man
Her formation intrigues and repulses
Instead of control, there are impulses
Her head morphs upon a backdrop mountain
Sack cloth breasts, stem flow of sandy fountains
Solid rock womb, born of imperfection
The spectre miscarries, sans reflection
Propped up and falls forward in painful lurch
Composite pieces, on acceptance search
Ossified limbs, mangled bone skewers stone
Destined to experience life alone
She poses in pain and reeks of decay
I stand with a hoop, brought along to play
Ignores my advances, falling apart
I’ll return with barbed wire to bind her heart
No more cushioned stumps or flailing crutches
Unraveling her knots, where flesh touches
I’ll fashion a cross and burial mound
Existence fades as parts crash to the ground
Parts don’t stay buried, so I light a fire
Warm them back up, on a funeral pyre
My god she’s beautiful, I’m overcome
We join together in flames, curse undone
Chet Atkin’s life work was profound
Mr. Guitar made Nashville’s sound
There’s no one to fret
Yet do one more set
From around his burial mound