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hand me down stories
an indian burial ground
figures in the woods
three piles of rocks
the same log
bundle of blood

               i am so, so sorry

One day,

I found the letter "W" laid
face to the ground-
i knew this because it's center
was pushed downward,

like a nose in the dirt.

with every attempt i made
to stir it, it would only moan
and remain still, its thin arms
bent around backwards.

this is not the first time
iv'e seen a "W" laid out,
having witnessed many
letters and numerals bite
the dust of misplacement-

it is just the sad truth
of our language.

i found a cardboard box
and picked it up carefully,
making sure i didnt injure
the poor fellow further.

it looked up at me and
made a weak smile,
knowing we all make

upon it's passing away,
it was this expression
i remembered most
when i buried it
next to an

-© 2020
bloodKl0tz Oct 15
1.  Headlights glowed like cigarette ends in the twilight

2. As soon as they winked out in the warm, weedy field, and the harsh engine noise snapped into silence, I began to cry.

3. Father stepped quietly towards me and I sniffed as I smelled the earth I was digging, the sweat I was dripping, the carcasses I was covering.

4.  Beneath the distant moon Father paused, watching me sift dirt over the remains of two limp goldfish.

5. The morbid scene glittered as moonlight sparkled off my tears and the half-buried scaled.

6.  A small tribute to their salty home.

7.  As if on cue, the wind ruffled the tops of the grain in the neighboring unshorn field; the undulating stalks mimicked the ocean.

8.  Their grave remains unmarked.
Written for Creative Writing class in 2008, the exercise was called Syntactic Gymnastics.
Amanda Aug 10
Bury who I was
Down beneath the dirt
Laying rest to lost innocence I will never get back

Begin the funeral procession
Pay respects to another naive heart
Poet who felt too much
One dreamer who still believed true love existed

Close the casket
Lower me in
Girl I used to be is gone
Below six feet of mistrust and betrayal

She died the moment you left
Written 8-18-15
michael Jun 26
Rain drops shell station road
Hurst turns point thirty three
Degrees north-west-west. See,
The quiet stones ahead

Lower the lead scarred flesh,
The soul of this marred son,
Into the dirt it laboured.

How many times should
Gorgythion's root-stem
Lose its petal-wreathed head?
We finish digging our graves, dug
to what we consider three feet, but
we don’t worry about measurements.

These deaths are negligible.

Coated in dirt and sweat and heaving,
we gaze at each other. We both nod,
toss our shovels aside and walk over
to our bodies. He grabs his by the wrist
and drags it across the grass. I hoist
mine into my arms and shuffle over.

They’re both dumped into the graves,
and we fill both the holes. He walks to
his car without hesitation. I pause a
moment to glare at my grave, but I don’t
offer a eulogy or prayer, only standing
there in silence. I catch up to him, throw
my shovel in the trunk, and we drive off.

He drops me at my home, and I go inside
to find my wife watching TV. My wife? I
blink, trying to focus. Yes, she is my wife.
She says “Hey honey”, and I respond with
a low “Hey”, but she doesn’t look over,
does not notice the mess. I ***** up the
stairs, counting the steps, and start a shower.

As the water warms, the mirror reveals
someone familiar. No, not familiar, this is
me. I get under the warm stream, letting it
clean away what is left of me.

by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
When you take the soil,
do you grab a handful,
or just a bit?

Is your nose sluggish,
or has it been days since
you’ve cried and you
smell the petrichor?

Do you listen to the priest
offering prayers? Or do you
turn hollow and hear only
your heartbeat?

Do you mutter a message,
grant your final send-off?
When you let go, do you
unfurl your hand and let it
drop like a heavy weight
leaving your open palm?
Does it seep between your
fingers and out of your hand?

Or are you swift, silent, eager
to advance the procession?
Do you toss it, as if sending
a ship off to sea?

Do you believe the carcass
beneath that pine lid cherishes
your gesture? Or do you do this
for yourself, for solidarity with
those with you? Do you think
there’s a difference?

When you take the soil,
do you grab a handful,
or just a bit?

by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
the garden and the grave
were the same for a morning
and all i heard was dirt
raining down on the pine copse
in a cavalcade
my ice-cold hands
braced against the door

this time, the ground divided
like a viper’s mouth
and every cracking bone
broke the silence of the shroud
still concealing me

oh, to sleep without dreams
in the vast shadow
of all i leave behind
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