Long Boneyard Poems
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BONEYARD
A mist of your scent.
An image of you.
Alone in the boneyard your sleep is forever more.
In the air is the fresh scent of dozens of roses, all to you I give.
My back against the cold headstone, a couple of words to say along.
Along the way a feeling of missing you, impossible to bring you back to the place you once knew.
To the world of your folks you will be deeply missed.
Flowers we gave.
Alone in the boneyard I sit with my back against the stone.
A chill brushed by me on a sunny day.
An image that stood five feet away.
A circle of madness covered your face.
Before you died were you in peace?
I walk the boneyard.
My love goes out to you.
On ocean bowride below gentle titans peep
ghost ships of the Pacific hunt and chase -
where great barnacled seafarers of the deep
beneath the waves its blue waters grace.
Old sea tales of killing lance and spear tip
tell of the dying struggle of the flurry -
once more mighty hulks of beast and ship
haunt the dark shadows of the undersea.
Let no harpoon pierce your skin,
no flense cut and slice,
not body or fin.
Let no kill sound its death throes,
and may long
live the shout of “thar she blows!”
Far and yon an old boneyard whaling station
fluking bulls and cows circle the perilled pod,
and breach and dive in fabled echolocation
the bones of Ahab and wreck of the Pequod.
Still ghost ships old hunting grounds scout
that mystic echo whalesong far reaching,
and still cavernous mouths unmade to shout
trap by moon and tide on remote beaching.
Let no harpoon pierce your skin,
no flense cut and slice,
not body or fin.
Let no kill sound its death throes,
and may long
live the shout of “thar she blows!”
Written: July 1992
Ahead straight, my agonist!
Neuron cells, explode!
Stab at fate and give a twist!
Lava, how you glowed...
Collaboration, my son...
Is this sure for thee?
Bullet, leap! Pour smoke, my gun!
Fine and fair and free!
Truth be told, I'm terrified?
Tiger, tall grass. Hide.
Pit viper, white ankle. Pride?
Surely woe betide...
Rain down, thought-spark! Sing, O song!
Life ahead, be long...
Inspiration, strike the gong!
Wargods, scuppernong.
Heavens, calm. O hell, burn low.
Heart within, thy lull.
Boneyard, battle, bane, below.
Baleful, brazen bull?
My glow is like a grasshopper.
Signalling to send!
Fireworks, grenades, wood chopper!
Death and Doom, make bend!
Set sail for the sun! Setting!
Shop keep in the cold!
Gambler, have you been betting?
Bell city, you tolled...
Vintage wine? O wraiths a-nine!
Service you rendered!
Salt of ocean, bring thy brine!
Optimist: occurred...
As I gaze upon the splendor of the beach:
yellow, soft and resplendent and compliant.
I realize that it is a debris field of bones.
Of shattered shells devoid of sound-of-sea-echoes.
Of bit of crabs, seaweeds and bones of fishes ground to dust,
all gathered into an amorphous tell-tale pile.
It's congealed when wet, soft and flowing when dry.
This boneyard of bone, shell grit and bony bits,
is caressed by the wind, currents and waves into dunes, banks, bars and drifts
that are constantly played and reworked.
It is this boneyard beach which provides the perfect
barrier and margin along the shore absorbing
the thrust of storms, winds and waves
protecting it from erosion.
Like the bones in a cemetery, or a calavera
the debris field on a beach
protects and sustains the living form
with the heritage remains of the past,
remembered and put to good use.
Ravine, art thou real?
You certainly look deep.
Thunder, o'er volcano peal!
Through the boneyard creep!
Hope, just take the night off.
O prisoner, take heed:
First you squat and then you cough.
Golden is such greed.
Emptiness, seep into me!
Flicker, fancy-free.
Time immortal, blessed be?
Sink him in the sea.
O Alliance Black Abyss:
Today I must die.
Yawning chasm, blow a kiss.
Shiver as you sigh.
Back in ancient Carthage?
O state religion, new?
Serenity, O my sage?
O agony, accrue.
Gulf within me, fissure wild.
Robot: reconciled?
Mother, father, clasp thy child.
Floor, monolith, tiled.
Dreams of our tomorrows?
I cannot miss the point.
Endless are such sorrows!
O bitter art, anoint!
Giving up? Why, yes, sir.
I do not have a clue.
Reality, whir a-blur!
Doubt and derring-do...
Gloomy dismal, and forlorn...
that's how this day was borne
in a Greyling sallow place
where death doth reign
without a face.
In a boneyard of decaying flesh,
one fresh abyss was dug
to the depth of six feet
before the night was still.
With shovel in his hand,
the digger gave a shrug
and left the land of the dead.
The cathedral stood tall
but grimly foreboding
on the edge of a haunted wood.
Built on hallowed ground,
where the ancient ones
lie decaying in their graves.
Knaves and preachers,
the righteous and the sinners,
followers and teachers...
all buried side by side
covered now with hoar frost.
Lives, once lost
never see the light of another morn.
They are mourned and tossed
into a hole like rubbish and trash,
or as ashes interred in an urn
after a burn. It's all the same
to the reaper.
Harsh winds have taken aim
at maudlin tree limbs
that seem to hang their heads
after watching their leaves
flayed by Autumn's sinister breeze.
Seasonal zephyrs have no pity.
They always have their way
with the rape of deciduous trees.
Winter's chill thrives in a world so still.
It's created a haunting silence,
one nearly serene in this scene.
There's no place to rest
in between life and death
in such a stygian world.
No escape from somber despair.
There's only an ominous pall
if anything is to be found there at all...
it will surely be expounded
in the quiet space of such a dreary place.
He wrapped his remains into his souls’ coffin at the cemetery
An oracle told him to be aware of gravediggers at the boneyard
Under cover of a midnight moon he sought solace and closure
Removed the wooden cross of too many forks from his greatcoat
Stared half naked and shivered into shadows of marble shrines
Recalled the good omen bestowed by the witch dressed in praise
Turned out to be a good day after all
He reminisced at promises of fortune and privileged birth sign
Money power and acclaim had never been far from his cradle
As one of society’s beacons he had feathered fortuitous gifts
Enhanced his standing in false virtue and belligerent strides
Never shied away from proffering prosperity in greedy pursuit
And yet approached necropolis and the grim reaper’s calling
Bad premises and yet change for conclusion
As he slowly pondered on benevolence and benediction he tripped
Near a wide open vault and tumbled into the tomb of reckoning
Ripped a scrumptious veil of superior misconceptions into tatters
Bled repentance and remorse onto the bottomless pit of lost hope
He was mortal after all and not oblivious to what riddled his mind
Vowed to be given one ultimate chance before he would demise
A special day just in time for healing
23 February 2020
Let me tell your a spooky story ... it begins on a day blue,
in a quiet and peaceful cemetery with many an angel statue.
I got there late in the afternoon walking past graves old,
as I walked the air seemed to change and I was shivering cold.
There to water flowers I rushed to get it done and leave the dead,
it was then that I heard the whispering and angels weeping red.
Then came the sighing and crying and it was scary and terrifying,
this place of the dead, this boneyard was just to horrifying.
It was becoming gloomy and misty as I passed trees ancient and knotty,
oh dear, there was a spine tingling scream and it had become foggy.
The iron gate enclosure was locked and now there was snow,
a ghostly lady said follow me as snowflakes started to blow.
Carl Koontz
1892-1915
Mister Gregg was standing atop my grounded skull,
And so was Mister White,
And the reticent county coroner.
And inexplicably,
They directed two men in blue overalls
To dig up my decomposed body that day.
I must say, the sounds of those slicing shovels,
Upending the dirt of my final destination,
Here in Mt. Olive Cemetery
Was most disheartening, to say the least.
But bigger and better digs
Were in store for me,
Up at Whittier Heights Cemetery.
“Easy fellas, easy,” I said silently,
“Easy now, as you lift me out!”
And “heave-ho” I heard the men say,
As they hoisted me up upon
The four-wheeled wagon,
With two sturdy horses up front
Looking back dubiously.
And together, with my one ton marble tombstone,
I and my lilly white sarcophagus
Travelled to the Heights,
Whittier’s new and spacious boneyard,
Festooned with wild roses.
Though it is impossible to die permanently twice,
I have discovered in death,
That it is possible to be buried a brace of times!
“Heave-Ho” I heard the men say!
Come to Now, brothers, and how!
Firewood after dark.
Compliments, O sacred cow!
Fling and flicker stark.
Could be, O my sages.
Riddles wrought in rhyme.
Time, bequeath thy ages!
Prime o'er Soul? Sublime.
Tapping on the clipboard?
Fingernail or pen?
Dragon, will ye guard thy hoard?
Fennel, fire, and fen...
Oblique? Carelessness, critique?
Frequency, catch flame!
Will the strong succor the weak?
If they want food, claim.
Catch up on thy sleep? Dig deep.
Cross the boneyard? Creep.
Preparation! Want to weep?
Stack behind the heap!
Present in the moment?
It's better that ye be.
Rebellions to foment?
Sink foemen in the sea.
Wind, rattle the weathervane!
Let the boy explain?
Yes, before we toss in main!
After a spring rain!
Educate for poppies?
Dreamers, why wile away?
Fish for gold or crappies?
O for, some sunny day.
Fright or plight? Best be polite?
Doom and dynamite!
Gods of death, thy dun delight!
Lone in line of sight...