Don’t come to the cemetery at night, Peter Xalxo would say
if you are so inclined, make your visits in the day
for often in the evening when exam worries were gone
I would go to the cemetery and sit on some tombstone.

I think boy the ones from the other world make visits at nights
and they would not love to find living souls upon their sights
why intrude their peaceful home and not leave them there alone
when the time after the sunset they think to exclusively own!

Having said this with a grave face he would lower his voice still low
While on nightly posts at the graves I’ve seen in the dark some glow
and at moonlit nights on duty’s round heard footsteps around me
I would advise boy not to step into at night at the cemetery.

He used to tell more such tales to instill in the boy some fear
but come the next evening and at the cemetery I would reappear
for I loved the moon bathed solitude the trees’ darkened shed
the tranquility of the place in quiet company of the dead!

All said I wouldn’t leave out in this account one truthful fact
Uncle Peter’s stories had some effect surely some impact
they colored my times at the cemetery spent at nights alone
I seemed to feel they were moving the graves’ marble stone.

Then one night as I was coming out around nine o’clock
to my horror found the gate closed with an iron lock
bewildered I stood there knowing no other ways to go
when there appeared a shadow heard the voice of Peter Xalxo.

I told you boy not to loiter here not disturb their peace of night
this ground here the dead walks now though beyond your sight
run home and never come back his voice in whisper talked
some more words he mumbled before got the gate unlocked.

That night at the dinner table my father told mom this
he was such a good man and a great friend to miss
but God only decides in his garden which flower to pluck
Peter Xalxo died this evening suffered a heart attack.

The first crush she had
was unluckily me.

From beyond the specs
her eyes were sad
yet silently pleading
someone found them sweet too.

Braving all her shyness
she penned me three sentences
jotted with immature hands
dipped in the fountain of romance:

How are you. I'm fine. Love you.

That night I took them to the streetlight
and read like a whole long story.

I never replied.

I only wished
she read it right
at the turn of page.

giving thanks
can be a very existential thing
as the legendary settlers in New England learned
when they arrived
   as illegal immigrants
and the natives
   though wary of their guns and swords
taught them to plant
   corn together with fish
and shared their harvest with them
   late in the year

giving thanks may be a very personal thing
whenever we travel far away
are given a friendly welcome
are fed and housed by the natives
and accepted into their families

giving thanks is a very human thing

it shows that we are aware
of the fragility of our life

that it always depends
on the kindness of strangers
who help us to survive
in their world

after all

we are aliens
in most parts of our globe

          * *

In woods of life a lion there so dwells,
A lion mortal men dost truly know,
All animals and birds of strangest dales,
For whiter than snow robes his heart doth glow.
His love not of here but of heaven's sphere,
For like as stars of yore and now sleeps last,
His cab's prey he must rummage here and there
Yet like as sun of yore and now wakes first:
His cabs in glee, the cynosure of all
Hence would as lief hunt through the darkest moor,
The entire shadowy un-trodden vale
To dress his cabs in joy-robes evermore.

   Hark! If this be no lion but rather
   An angel proud I am to call mother.


Kikodinho Edward Alexandros,
Los Angeles, California.

11/20th/2018.
              
#Shakespearean sonnet

#Been penning this poem since yesteryear