The Headstone of C.W.
At Halloween dusk, The Headstone cool
dressed in red stems with cool
starlike shoot tips
stole a garbage bag with hips
full of candy left by the pool of chips,
left by a dumpy man with big hips
diagnosed with diabetes
(he never ate enough Wheaties)
She said, ‘He’s such a fool!’
She thought she was doing him a favour.
She hated the word “favour”.
Little did she know...
The candy had tiny hand grenades inside them.
Yeah. One in each of them.
Just before the
Halloween Costume Competition at the
Elmwood Mall,
she ate the entire bag,
and she exploded onto the wall.
A killer cleaner put all her pieces in a bag.
Life may be hullabaloo now,
Perhaps apoplectic,
Conceivably cuckoo,
Or it feels like the
World is ending,
Apocalyptic,
But maybe—
Just maybe,
Someday
I'll be me,
Happy and free,
Like a ballerina
In a tedious tutu.
In the end,
All I want—
Just one thing—
Just one—
Inscribed on
My headstone
“ I have loved,
I have lived”
The trails of fog like cold entrails
that wind and slither through the copse
which shiver at the touch and sops.
A chance at vision clearly fails.
Each jutting rock: a sentinel.
A greying headstone stands alone
against the tones of verdant cone.
My heartbeat sounds like a death knell.
A silver coffin bell from ditch.
As I am trying t’ place the hums;
direction clear from whence it comes
in variant beseeching pitch.
A hand that reaches up from grave
implores me for small change to buy
a warming nip of hooch as I
surrender will at being brave.
Now I fly !
May my gifts spread across our
blue-green Globe as I return to Sky
may my smile ripple in open hearts
as I dance on an orange horizon
may my healings remain
remembered balms and my
presence a white feather in
your cocked hat
May my meals remain flavourful
tastes on your tongue and my
touch soft breezes spiralling
sacred secrets
may my glance remain a
glistening gem in germination
and my breath a warm
whisper in your cosy beds
May my grey hairs nourish Earth
as I harmonise with angelic harps
my consummated flesh becoming
a silent magnolia at your window
May each slender match you use to
light your candle kindle my flame
that melts your marrow !
May tangled tears you shed for me
become crystal water that slates your
thirst after each marathon month
and may gentle colours of my
wash day become fragrant seeds
you plant afresh in damp Earth gay...
May soft indigo that vein my lids
cloak your luminosity in each
unfolding hour as ambrosia
arms to embrace my baton
you now hold aloft !
Now I fly !
IN MEMORY OF CENTURION
GAIUS LUCIUS MANIUS
PRIMUS PILUS FIRST COHORT
LEGIO VI VICTRIX
HE SPENT HIS PENSION
IN CISALPINE GAUL
WHERE HE RAN
AN HONEST BROTHEL
HIS FUNERAL WAS GRACED
BY A MURDER OF CROWS
AND GRIEVIOUS LAMENTATIONS
IN THE NAME OF FAIR ISHTAR
DAUGHTER OF SIN AND SHAMASH
At the End of the Yellow Brick Road
David J Walker
to say I knew him well
is a Deep slice
of life as we knew it
as we shared it
as we wanted to believe it
never needing to ask
which of us
conceived it
o hallowed ground
no longer than a shallow
memory
the shadow of everyone’s
alternate reality
I write prayers in rhyme
and paste them to
your headstone
In time
they will be the property
of the whirlwind
sent to bring you
home again
and yet
I still send them
daily
you were my
great and powerful
Mentor of Oz
and I in awe
because
because
because
I did not run out of time, time ran out of me.
4/26/2021
Crisp grasses reflect ghost-white;
Ethereal shafts of moonlight.
Tenebrous shifting shadows;
Declivity of dolerite rows.
A lonely spirit roams freely —
A fresh headstone in the lee.
POET'S NOTE
When written in English, sijo may be written in six lines, with each line containing two syllable groupings instead of four. This arrangement was exploited by the modern sijo poet, Kim Unsong, who introduced end-rhymes to the couplets.
***
dolerite: It is a hard stone akin to shale. It caps many low hills, which have a base of sandstone. This lends a flat top appearance to the hills. It is a common feature in the Great Karoo area of South Africa. Diabase is the preferred name in North America.
tenebrous: dark
Mossy vines camouflage decaying headstone
Thus hidden and fallen into disrepair
Foliage ever swallow so it cowers
Deeply weatherworn lettering embraced there
Threads of piercing light filtering through windblown
Limbs surrounded by trees, ferns, and wildflowers
Strewn mounds of decomposed fallen trees below
Cool nature's spirit aspirating showers
9/28/2020
Writing Challenge - Decay - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Will She Shed Tears On My Headstone
When my ghost and I fade away
into earth's breast that final day
shall I rest in paradise hills
or as a fish among the rills
lay beneath blue of foaming seas
leaving these olden bones in me?
When this earthen spirit takes flight
flying from worry and world's blight
can looking back it then realize
life and love were the greatest prize
or would sorrows its sight then blind
love's sweet remnants from mortal mind.
When body is laid underground
music plays, yet heard is no sound
could her image and love give aid
to heal the wounds regrets have made?
When life flees and I rest alone.
Will she shed tears on my headstone?
Robert J. Lindley, 8-10-2020
Rhyme, ( Pondering Thoughts Born Before Death Arrives )
He died that night
In a cheap motel
In Maryville Tennessee
$35.00 karma mixed with
The smell of curry
Coming from the front office
No one would ever understand
Why he chose to die there
Especially those few
Who claimed to know him well
The gravel parking lot
The towels you could see through
And the lawn chairs inside
For furniture
Made the connection and the
Endless search real
In a way it hadn’t been before
As he sat outside his room
Thinking about the end
The local construction workers
Remembered his name
As they called out to him
At the end of their day
Marking time by a weekly rate
In their rooms just down the hall
They remembered the little things
His own family had forgotten
Or not so little…
AND THEN HE DIED
IN HIS $35.00 MOTEL ROOM
HIS PASSING A BURIED MEMORY
AND HEADSTONE FOREVER BLANK
(Newport Tennessee: April, 2013)
No headstone please
Sprinkle me among the flowers
But not the roses, I'm mad at them
Written July 17, 2018
Entered Kevin Shaw's Life or Death Epigram Contest
Did you wear your life out;
did you use it all up
—what are you saving it for
We’re all running headlong
toward a hole in the ground
—that the past and future insure
Are you stuck on tomorrow
lost in wishes of things
—hoping there’s still more to come
Will your headstone bring sorrow
to those mourning your loss
—inscribing what never got done
(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2018)
For those who visit Swansea
remember that it's where a legend sleeps
The Reverend Christmas Evans
the greatest preacher ever heard or seen
It is said that if you visit his graveside
and tell the man about your day
then close your eyes and kiss his headstone farewell
you will receive luck for the next few days
That is the story my Grandad told me as i'm telling it to you
so remember if you are in Swansea and down on your luck
then you know just what to do
He died that night
In a cheap motel
In Maryville Tennessee
$35.00 Karma mixed with
The smell of curry
Coming from the front office
No one would ever understand
Why he chose to die here
Especially those few
Who claimed to know him well
The gravel parking lot
The towels
You could see through
And the lawn chairs inside
For furniture
Made the connection, and the
Endless search
Real
In a way it hadn’t been before
As he sat outside his room
Thinking about the end
The local construction workers
Remembered his name
As they called out to him
At the end of their day
Marking their time
By a weekly rate
In their rooms down the hall
They remembered the little things
His own family
Had forgotten
Or not so little,
AND THEN HE DIED
In his $35.00 motel room
His fortune, just buried memory
With its headstone forever blank
(Newport Tennessee: April, 2013)
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