Here beneath this pile of stones
Lies all that's left of Sally Jones
Her name was really Smith, not Jones
But Jones was used to rhyme with stones.
-Anonymous
As my brain leaks
divulging what it shouldn’t
forgetting what it couldn’t
afford to speak
I feel like a tree lost its sap
somewhere up in Vermont
a victim of reverse détente
hardening, zapped …
O, once I was glib as a goose
my tongue a bow set tight
my wit an arrow, slicing left and right
deadly executioner with a noose
All’s now a faded memory
tombstone poetry in the cemetery
Oh, scorched cathedral of the desert floor,
Where purple shadows stretch across the sand.
The sun retreats behind the Dragoon peaks,
Leaving its fire to cool upon the land.
Behold the Corral, hushed in evening’s light,
Where lead once sang a song of sudden death;
The echoes of the thirty seconds’ roar.
Still seem to catch the frantic, fiery breath.
And there, upon the ridge where cactus bloom,
The wooden crosses tilt in that stony soil;
Old Boot Hill, where the weary rest entombed,
Freed from the bullet and bitter, silver toil.
Ah, Tombstone, a town too tough to fade,
You wear the twilight like a tattered shroud;
A monument to every choice once made,
Beneath the lonely, drifting desert cloud.
In velvet umbra burns a hallowed flame,
As ghosts rise and shadows find their fame.
“I wrote it ...
I didn’t have to say it
I questioned
when answers tried to run and hide
I served
what time became and what it didn’t
I died
the way I lived — with no goodbye”
(Buried In Walden: September, 2025)
A place of peace and calm
Miles upon miles of graves sites
Memorials telling their life stories
Souls lifted up to glory
Lived in the flesh
Endless rest
Sleep on in your years
You lived to preserver
Their tomorrows arrived
Now they slumber
Days, years and nights numbered
Their names gathered
Eternity mount
Ashes to Ashes
Dust to Dust
The Sun rises casting shadows over each tombstone
Smiles seen through their spirit
No longer mortals
Chosen ones
Time schedule
Heaven Hotel had their roams ready
Heaven was waiting holding steady
Observation lives Earth
Surrounding their birth
No more worries, pain nor sickness
Tombstone Manor
Strangers to each other
A community of its own.
"Some believe they must earn a life in heaven.unaware heaven is already their home" ~ CayCay
Human life is striving for joy while saturated with busy
bits of an emotional seesaw, its movements leave traces
in so many places, our goal seems pre-disabled. So, it
is that despite emotional throes we seek fulfillment over
and over.
As God's own designed, divine-honed souls, we are
light sourced as formed in His realm. Reincarnation is the
tutorial for achieving the brightest possible spiritual light.
To earth we are sent countless times, exposed to endless
human themed rhymes. We die, into heaven we slide,
advanced souls review and guide us through all we failed
to discern, all we taught - be it good or an influence
incongruent with who we really are. A karma is decided and
once again a soul is flesh ignited. Once a soul has met all
goals, the most radiant color is bestowed; the color of
euphoric radiance star-shining for eternity.
born human on earth
to spirit world all return ~~
man visits tombstones
Tombstone
What's the point of living?
Might as well get busy dying?
Darkness covers our paths.
All the days under the sun won’t last.
The graveyard is inviting.
There's more empty plots where we lie.
You can’t escape from judgment.
No place to hide but stand in line in blood red.
Tombstone underground or burned alive in a vase.
Become the dirt with no face.
No one will remember you.
Shadows will cover your grave in shaded blue.
Underneath you will become worm food.
Green grass will grow in the morning dew.
No more tears to be shed.
In a box alone pitch black dead.
Sometimes the living would want to trade places.
Make a wish, you could be next laid to rest.
A hard life above.
Rejected from the world and unwanted.
Truly you crave the ending.
Grab a shovel and start digging.
The moon casts a reminder of your guilt.
Take it with you, the blood has over filled.
Lay facing up decomposing.
Being in a dark place is very lonely.
WHERE YOU ARE, I AM,
WHERE YOU GO, I WILL BE THERE;
LOVE'S AN EPITAPH:-
Sometimes life can be peaceful
And Sometimes it can be quite
You can even hear the needle drop
What is so funny?
Sometimes life can be full of drama
And Sometimes it can be stressful
When is this pot getting hot?
The bomb has exploded,
As the seas collide
And the tree bears its fruit
The world is watching
As the river becomes full
And the grass is getting greener
The world would be amazed
A book is becoming a reality,
Sometimes life can be wonderful
And Sometimes it can be loveable
You can even hear your own voice
Hilarious it is
Sometimes life can be full of achievements
And Sometimes it can be accomplishments
When is this pot getting hotter?
The bomb has exploded.
Leonard Bailey’s tombstone was cryptic
“one gathered in unison of solitude”
some thought they had solved the riddle
was it devised by Leonard himself or his wife?
It was inscrutable to most.
Very few thought they understood it.
No one agreed.
Best tombstone in the cemetery.
And the most visited.
A piece of clay spinning around,
Molded by hands of fire and ice,
Shaped into form; tied and bound
By experiences through this vice.
Round and round upon a spin wheel,
Born into centre going fast and slow,
Pieces of clay falling; the bonemeal
picked up and hand built to grow.
Every piece of clay on the slab,
Foot pressing down on pedal and held,
The hands pinch, fold and grab
Molding each into a shape unparalleled.
Potter works tirelessly, but exhausted,
Each mistake, flaw seen by many the few,
Of these to account for all, but costed
Enough and thrown into oven, our debut.
Baked into true form with all on display,
Heat rising and baking; what is shown…
Beautiful pot or broken pieces of clay?
Oven opens, steam rising; a tombstone.
mountains morph pink
cacti formations cool
as Summer sun sets…
Doc Holliday and Earps ‘sup
pan de campo and beans
2/18/2022
A BRIAN STRAND TANKA
no tombstone no plaque
worn out frayed flowers hang
unkept weeds grow fierce
So no more shall his traitors hate;
For death's veils have made it late
To slight any soul time has called
To dine and wine in the city of gold.
And his tombstone does eerily stand
Above the grass on the watered land;
Where passers-by might donate a tear
To lament the passing of a jewel dear.
And wayfaring aliens of kindlier blood
May cast a tearful eye above the mud,
To read that fading nineteen-thirty-nine;
His twain names inked in italicized line.
And perhaps see therebelow two-zero-zero-nine,
Saddest hour the grape was thieved from the vine;
And maybe briefly stand still and belatedly mourn,
And sadly concede all must die that erst was born.
His only friends - merry butterflies during the day,
And the crickets who with mournful chirping pray;
Shall some keen vigil keep over his placid bones,
Throughout his rest beneath those tireless stones.
Copyright © Hannington Mumo | Year Posted 2021.
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