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stark75 - all messages by user

8/30/2017 10:35:37 PM
An Epitaph	Grace Thompson 1894-1917 At the timbered railroad depot, On lower Philadelphia Street, Across from the lumber yard and the state school there, I spent many an erstwhile afternoon, Sitting and worrying and waiting, Like an expectant Ceres, For the returning equinox, Like an agonizing Penelope, For her long lost love, From the ancient shores of Ilium, Waiting and hoping in the spring rain. And I thought a thousand thoughts, About life and love and finally dying. And I also thought much about my wonderful father, My gentle fitful father, A wayward, kind soul he was, Who, out of the blue, Left the town and our family behind, Left to find greener pastures as he said, And who promised to return, When his oats had at last been wildly sown. And I waited and waited, Praying and hoping, That the next train would at last bring, His lovely humble smile, His relaxed eyes, and handsome hermetic brow. But my endless patient waiting, Came to a halt that day in cloudy April, My last day alive, When again, the tremulous train arrived, There at the timbered railroad depot, Across from the state school there, And once again, he was not on board. And so, here I am now, Still waiting patiently, expectantly, In my dusty forgotten grave, Waiting for just a single simple flower, From the only man I absolutely adored, To be placed upon my single simple tombstone.
3/1/2018 7:13:06 PM
America Watts 1851-1934	America Watts 1851-1934 Mister White buried me here beside Greek George, Back here, with the wind-tossed weeds and the walnuts. “Hey George, you old camel driver, you. Can you hear me over there? I can relate to your dogged controlling ways.” With invisible trace chains attached to my pigtails, Mister Watts for 39 years was my master and tormentor; Five times in our marriage I felt the bloody pangs, Of his beaded belt, and bare knuckles. Five times I fled from his house a frighted, Wondering if I would wake up the next morning alive. “Hey George, you old camel driver, you, Can you hear me over there? I was no beast of burden to beat, Nor was I his old blanket to hang on the line.” When a possible sixth time erupted in 1891, I ran to the tool shed next to the privy, Out back, there, with the lilacs and the bleating ewes. And I desperately grabbed his bladed axe. “No Mister Watts! You will not beat me today!” I screamed, as nearby neighbors looked on. “No Mister Watts! Never again will I accept this!” Looking back on that moment, here in my grave, I believe Mister Watts was waiting for me to at last resist him. No more after that was I his silent patsy. No more was I his old, used-up mare, His old brow-beaten girl, with ticks, gadfly bites, And a thousand silent complaints. “Hey George, you old camel driver, you. Can you hear me over there? Truth be known, I stood up to my only love in life.” I finally decided to make a stand against him, The one who fed, clothed and provided a roof over my head. And he stopped. He stopped! Thank the Lord, he stopped beating me! And here I am, after 83 years of toil, hardship and pain, Buried happily, way back here, With the wind-tossed-weeds and the walnuts.
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