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Graveyard Verses by Allan M. Heller
Grave Reflections
An effigy atop a stone has fixed its gaze on me
Itinerant intruder in this city of the dead
As growing stillness slowly stifles all thoughts in my head
'Til I can almost hear the soft, sepulchral inquiry
Why do you come to such a place to spend an afternoon?
I know the answer as I walk past graves with flowers strewn.
While noting markers lined in rows or clustered into groups
I hover over history to see who slumbers where
A founding father, matriarch, mass-murderer or mayor
While epitaphs illegible, like missing combat troops
Demand imagination more than those that clearly tell.
I'm beckoned by the symmetry of tombstones great and small
With angels capped, whose silent trumpets sound the final call
Proud monuments and mausoleums striving to excel
Alongside sunken, crumbling markers grappling with the vines.
Still wondering and wandering, I ponder fate's designs
And grieve with all young parents, widows, widowers and friends
Who came to visit frequently, until they came no more
Because the sight of loved ones' graves grew harder to endure.
So seeking no acknowledgement, I am the one who sends
Those lasting tributes, last regards and prayers for fleeting souls.
And finally, I feel a peace that can not be obtained
Through mortal slumber, quiet walks or thoughts of riches gained.
I envy those no longer plagued by superficial goals
Unburdened by those worldly woes that life so blithely doles.
We, the forsaken
(a villanelle)
Our names and faces no one can recall.
Beneath the sodden earth wherein we lie
Within the confines of a crumbling wall
We have one last request to ask of all
Who pass our way, to simply pass on by.
Our names and faces no one can recall
Our very presence clearly must appall
Most all of you, who will not cast an eye
Within the confines of a crumbling wall.
So do not deign to bring us wreaths or fall
Upon your knees to pray and then to cry
Our names and faces no one can recall.
The weeds are thick, the grass uncut and tall
And dead the trees that strove to touch the sky
Within the confines of a crumbling wall.
No longer comes the widow in her shawl.
A simple fact that no one can deny:
Our names and faces no one can recall
Within the confines of a crumbling wall.
Lasting respects (a sestina)
The father once again has come to mourn
And offer prayers to speed her soul's ascent.
He mutters invocations as he bows
His head and stares directly at the ground
Oblivious to wind and whirling leaves
He reminisces as it starts to rain.
Quite soft at first, it sprinkles the terrain
And summons mist that lingers in the morn
And hovers over browning grass and leaves
Olfactory remembrances, a scent
He smelled that day they laid her in the ground
Beneath the poplar's overhanging boughs.
Remembering the eulogy, he bows
His head and thinks how God will come to reign
While lives that should have lasted long are ground
Like pebbles into dust and parents mourn
While all the while still nodding their assent
Their loved one flies to heaven as she leaves.
His shiny shoes now covered with dead leaves
Beneath the poplar's overhanging boughs
He can not but resent what fate has sent
But as a man, he has been taught to rein
In his emotions, and to never mourn
In public, and be strong, and hold his ground.
He feels like he is sinking in the ground
That each time that he visits her he leaves
A part of him that stays behind to mourn
Beneath the poplar's overhanging boughs
Oblivious to chilly wind and rain.
He takes small comfort in her soul's ascent
But gives to God what God to him has sent.
At times he envies those beneath the ground
Forever sheltered from that somber reign
Of drenching sorrow which holds sway and leaves
The living lingering beneath the boughs
Of poplar trees upon a misty morn.
The sun's ascent declares the end of morn
And towards the soggy ground the father bows
The rain has stopped, a single rose he leaves.
Spider on a tombstone
This tiny vermin has a lot of nerve
To so unceremoniously crawl
Across this polished granite, which is all
Some poor decedent has left now to serve
To keep his fading memory alive.
This shiny stone, assaulted by the rain
Disgraced by feathered folks time and again
Attacked by an arachnid who should strive
To crawl around it, at the very least.
I've half a mind to crush him with my shoe
But this would further desecrate the stone
To splay the essence of this little beast.
So I suppose there's nothing I can do
But ask him, please, to leave the dead alone.
Skeletons in the closet
(a pantoum)
Sealed away forever with the closing of a lid
Long-forgotten secrets strewn with dreams whose time has past
Bound with broken promises, lie moldering amid
Buried bones in boxes, in a yard that has amassed
Long-forgotten secrets strewn with dreams whose time has past.
Strollers in this grove of graves walk over much more than
Buried bones in boxes, in a yard that has amassed
Sepulchers containing what was and what might have been.
Strollers in this grove of graves walk over much more than
Cold cadavers resting in their horizontal cells
Sepulchers containing what was and what might have been-
Echoes of Elysium or private little hells.
Cold cadavers resting in their horizontal cells
Bound with broken promises, lie moldering amid
Echoes of Elysium or private little hells
Sealed away forever with the closing of a lid.
360°
(a ballade)
I'll leave no flowers at her grave, because this is a lie
A dark deception that descends like fog upon a lake
No need to mourn or shed a tear, because she did not die
Another hour or two will bring the breeze to gently take
Away this foggy, fatal vision, leaving in its wake
The morning bright, the water clear and gleaming in the sun.
Or possibly this granite stone was placed here by mistake.
In any case, I don't accept that death has somehow won.
How selfish of her to desert me, knowing full well I
Could never face the world alone, could never fully shake
The shroud of sorrow from my soul, and so I must rely
On disappearing memories and reveries to make
Amends for missing company that stirs my heart to break.
And yet, I must not fold to fate, lest I become undone
Though others in relentless mourning their whole lives forsake.
In any case, I don't, except that death has somehow won.
Futility is the result of trying to deny.
Each life that comes into the world is like a single flake
Descending to oblivion while falling from the sky
To melt away with all the rest when spring shall overtake.
I miss her in the day, and many nights I am awake
Seeking solace in the stars and somehow finding none.
Some turn their backs on former faith, insisting God is fake
In any case, I don't, except that death has somehow won.
I think that this is just a dream, perhaps a stomach ache
Produced some deep disturbance that has caused my mind to run
Amok with evil images. A lesser man would quake.
In any case, I don't accept that death has somehow won.
Why Not a Poem of the Grave?
(a triolet)
Why not a poem of the grave?
Why should we such a verse eschew?
My proud, prolific pen will brave
Why not? -a poem of the grave.
We must return that which He gave
That life bestowed on me and you
Why not a poem of the grave?
Why should we such a verse eschew?
Godmother
(a rondel)
I could not bring myself to weep
Ashamed I stood, my eyes still dry
Until at last, the mourning sky
Fulfilled the vow I could not keep
And roused the thunder from its sleep,
Dispensing proxy tears from high.
I could not bring myself to weep
Ashamed I stood, my eyes still dry
My sorrow buried six feet deep.
I loved her none the less, yet I
Despite a most concerted try
Could not evoke a sob, or peep
I could not bring myself to weep.
Memento mori
The cover of settling sleep
Always more a diaphanous veil than a swaddling blanket
Is drawn away
Not by a pale, ghoulish hand
But a soft, silent breath
Which whispers across my face:
Memento mori.
At the horizon I see
That perennial game of hide-and-seek played out
And I return
To irrelevant reckonings
When I hear a muted murmur
Floating in the air.
Memento mori.
I have a great day
But one that is somehow tempered by a simple lesson in geometry
For I know
That I am not a circle
But a line segment.
Musings on Mortality
(a rondeau redoublé)
Years slowly settle on us, like the dust
In layers first invisible, then white
Borne by the unsuspecting air, it must
Upon unwary surfaces alight.
Quite cognizant I am of coming night
But trepidation's given way to trust
That life has been a blessing, not a blight.
Years slowly settle on us, like the dust.
Time causes stone to scale and steel to rust
It flattens mountains with a gentle might
And coaxes glaciers with a steady thrust.
In layers first invisible, then white
The snows of time will bury me from sight.
But winter is a lovely season just
Like all its sister seasons in their right
Borne by the unsuspecting air, it must
Evoke mortality with every gust.
The spirits of the ages who unite
To fill the heavens with a reverent hush
Upon unwary surfaces alight
While those who walked the earth or soared in flight
Sleep soundly deep beneath the hallowed crust.
I see the silhouette of death, a slight
Surreptitious shadow filled with lust.
Years slowly settle on us.
You say that you are not afraid
You say that you are not afraid to face the final call?
Because you are superior to all us "infidels"
Who undulate like ragged rowboats in the ocean's swells
Engulfed at last by angry seas that form a swirling pall.
Here's my take:
God forsake?
Your mistake.
Suppose the bridge of stone and steel that you will walk across
Is really made of rotting wood and decomposing rope.
So if the boards beneath your feet give way, I only hope
Your pompous days of re-born faith were not a total loss.
Caustic wit?
Live with it.
Hypocrite.
On angel's wings, you claim, you'll soar to rendez-vous with God
While all the rest of us descend to well-deserved perdition
So confident you are your sins will all receive remission.
Perhaps your wings are made of wax. Now wouldn't that be odd?
Apostate?
I debate.
Just you wait.
Nothing Else in This World
Death is not what I fear, but I dread death denied.
When all reason has vanished, all memory gone
And when loved ones are strangers, how can I abide
That perverted existence that settles upon
The uncounted infirm, neither living nor dead?
When I plunge to the point where I need help to don
My own clothes in the morning, or get out of bed
Let me join buried brothers, benignantly spared-
Do not feed me at all if I have to be fed.
Very lucky are corpses to zombies compared.
Even ghosts are not trapped in some rickety shell.
Will I cross the bar seamlessly, or be ensnared
Forced to languish for years in a half-living hell?
Far too many I've seen, unaware of their plight
Wander lost through the halls of the places they dwell.
Days without demarcation, that blur into night
Nothing else in this world gives me more of a fright.
LOOKING FOR A ROMANTIC POEM FOR THAT SPECIAL SOMEONE?
About the Author
Allan M. Heller is a free lance writer, and the author of three books -Fabjob Guide to Become a Life Coach (Fabjob, Ltd., December, 2003), Philadelphia Area Cemeteries (Schiffer Publishing, Ltd., April, 2005) and Monuments and Memorials of Washington, D.C. (Schiffer, May, 2006).
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