#cemetary
Today
I visited a cemetery
For a geocache
But I found
Something else
I visited the Italian section
Hoping to find some of my culture
But I found
A small grave
Sticking out of the ground
Labeled
”Alice”
It had her parents names
And nothing but her date of birth
And death
She was seven months old.
Her poor parents
She never got to speak
To walk
To wonder
To make friends
To go to school
To get a job
I wonder
If her parents still think about her
If they're even still alive
Poor baby Alice…
Nov 29, 2024
Nov 29, 2024 at 4:31 PM UTC
A brink of clouded moonlight
amongst oranges and blood-kissed red tucked away between headstones
with stories longing to tell
Sep 27, 2020
Sep 27, 2020 at 12:50 PM UTC
I'd love to sit beneath the cherry blossom tree
Although, someone else resides below
Their spirit will hold it forever
The grass I sit on is fertilized
by hundreds of human bodies
What is going on underneath?
Do the spirits dance, drink?
Celebrate their freedom?
Mar 11, 2020
Mar 11, 2020 at 11:10 PM UTC
Under the birthstones
in the carcass yard
is where the flesh tombs lie.
Decomposing for three long years.
Eradicating memories,
dreams and fears.
Becoming next, the black gloop
treacle of putrification.
Now bones, just old bones
is the remain of what was once,
a spirit with a name.
Poetry by Kaydee.
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 5:19 PM UTC
I begin my walk
on the circled asphalt path
behind the old Lutheran church
founded in 1790
the crickets chirp
a defiant roar
as I descend upon their quiet space
clouds are dark and a bit threatening
are they spirits taking form above me?
mistral winds on a windless day
seem to gather and fuse into words
sentences
held for a moment...clear
then lost to fuzzy and distorted whispers
'They are here...'
'Isaac'
'Listen to me...I must kill'
'I have an angel'
'power'
before departing
I stop at a headstone
I'm not sure why
but I attempt
to pronounce the last name of this departed soul
3 times
on the 3rd try I am interrupted by a young boy
who corrects me with the proper pronunciation
I turn at the gate and advise the spirits
that I am leaving
a friendly 'okay' came back to me
my God
I have walked in the living room of the dead
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 2:51 PM UTC
Yesterday when passing by the cemetary
There was a small family gathering
maybe was a friend, a family member
Or an ancestor from long ago
Even though I can't really say for sure
Cause I actually don't know
Only was the way those few people
were holding each other close
There was a feeling like a butterfly
caught on a mild gentle breeze
And like those dandelion petals
flying unexpectedly past me
Was that moment on second glance
When I knew in depths my soul
Was someone they loved deeply
and didn't want to let go
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 11:23 PM UTC
It blended eight bent branches
Curled a curved roof o'er-head.
With dead feelings; hurt, burnt, Dead.
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 4:29 PM UTC
Walking through the cemetary
I wonder very desperately
why each and every gravestone
lacks the name of the dead soul.
In a cemetery of broken dreams
and people who died too young.
Is a gravestone that reads stoically:
"Here lies the one who once sung
a thousand words every day
and a thousand words every night,
until she sang her last words
and popped a lung."
I can't believe these words I read!
What a tragedy it must be
to die before one
can ever complete the song they love.
Next to that burial site
of the singer with no name,
is another morose stone that reads:
"Here lies the one who took aim
at a thousand targets everyday
and a thousand targets every night
until he finally missed one
and made himself very lame."
I can't comprehend the pain he felt
as he worked so hard
and look where his efforts got him!
He shot himself.
Several concrete slabs down
is another grieving stone
It reads:
"Here lies the one who had sewn
a thousand stiches everyday
and a thousand stitches every night
Until they finally stabbed the needle
right through to the bone."
Why must they hurt more
when trying to fix themselves?
Now the art they created to wear
will never be worn by anyone.
In the cemetary of broken dreams
and people who died too young
are gravestones that share the essence
of who the unnamed soul was.
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 10:43 PM UTC
Industrial rust
dusted over and
hardened, tarnished
towers and the solitary
echo of the wind -
perhaps once there
was a presence to
this Plateau, if anything
it’s buried in the woods
of the cemetery with the
legacy. A dead tree in
a dying field, engulfed
by emptiness and a monument
to the past: but how much
longer will it last?
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 12:23 PM UTC
I have a cemetary inside.
No fences.
Bodies are layered
East, west, north, south.
Legs and arms wrap my organs,
Squeezing sideways, lengthways
And diagonally.
Dates are heartstones
Chiselled in my brain.
They arrive unexpectedly,
Some from places I've not visited,
And stay.
It's crowded,
They keep coming.
I've flowers and meditations as well,
And sit quietly amidst the noise
And visit.
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 6:29 PM UTC
Beautiful tribute
Tended lawns
Snow white crosses
In their throngs
Men sent out
To right the wrongs
Some were knighted
Some were pawns
There are lovely
Spreading trees
Bowing in the
Scented breeze
In the winter
There to freeze
There our nation's
On its knees
There are many
Stones for heads
Punctured by
The flying lead
There are widows
For those wed
The hearts are countless
They, too, are dead.
SoulSurvivor
Memorial Day
(C) 5/25/2015
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 3:49 PM UTC
The ravens survey
The gated community,
Scouring for a meal.
They swoop low,
Caw and crow,
Conversing in melody.
The repast dead
Are safely laid
Beneath their carrion beaks;
I, in grief
Shoo them off
Your bronzed memory:
Then I pause
To recall
The flight ahead of me.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 1:06 PM UTC
my knees are stained
dyed from soil
scratched with thorns
graves of those who went too soon
babies whose cradles became caskets
fathers and mothers who smoked one too many cigarettes
no one thought that little boy’s nightlight would become so literal
/when did life become this/
with chains made of dead flowers
dust covering my eyelashes
these people are no longer able to simply be
and that can’t come from god
the moonlight pierces my skin with its sharp crescent
the stars slicing my pride
i lay down on this grave
allowing god to see the worn vessel
traveled too much
made too many mistakes
mistakes that shouldn’t have happened
mistakes i tell people didn’t happen
malignancy
but im still here
in the ******* cemetery
shoving my hands into the dirt
coating my nails with blood and death
hoping ill eventually find a heartbeat
and when i don’t
i look up to the sky
make a noose out of galactic chains
hoping the interstellar sacrifice will be right all those wronged
because that cant come from god
right?
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 11:40 PM UTC