They rarely bother to mow here anymore,
Once a month, perhaps every other
(Times are tight, full burials being pretty much
A thing of the past these days)
Though it’s unlikely anyone would notice
If the grass grew a bit longish,
Or the crownvetch and crabgrass became a little more prevalent,
No one being buried in this part of the cemetery
For the better part of a hundred years now,
The stones bleached and faded from decades of sleet and sunlight
And acid rain from the auto plants of Flint and Lorain and South Bend,
(Now boneyards for gears and drill bits themselves)
Those names still legible on the teetering, unsteady stones
Mostly the stolid Scotch-Irish surnames
Vaguely familiar from the town’s founding generation
Found on its street signs or pocket-parks,
Their descendants mostly having fled to friendlier climes,
Though the odd lesser strain of the families remain
(Not that they would choose to pay tribute to those ancestors
To whom they have fared so poorly in comparison)
Though many more bear the family names of their trades,
Clusters of Coopers, Weavers, and Smiths,
Their stones bearing the sentiments of grim Victorian fatalism,
Thus in mercy early call’d away or The happy soul is that which fled.
Such thoughts are quaint, eccentric things to us now,
As would be the clothes they wore, the songs they sung,
But we would know them nonetheless,
Know the muted joy of their minor successes,
The depth and finality of their defeats,
The sting of bowing and scraping
To the owners of the mill, the haughty town fathers,
As they served them at the milliners or the drug store,
Their odd, fleeting dreams of grandeur having come to rest here,
Cherry-lidded as they proceed to dust.

Have you ever given a thought?
To countless reasons why,
many are times you caught.
Your heart dancing to that which you own,
but with money wasn’t bought.
I mean, that which even if you traveled oversees,
searching on water using a boat.
You were never to taste unless maybe,
the heart felt like sinking deeper chocking your throat,
even though like a warrior so hard the feeling you fought.
Painting a vivid picture of love is what I sought.
Without going any further I sincerely hope,
the above lines to you an understanding have brought.

So this one fateful night.
December the 3rd, 1998.
All alone, seated on a crippled chair,
slightly leaning to the right.
In a battle consumed by the above same feeling,
which I found unable to fight.
Questions and only questions,
playing hide and seek in my mind.
How did I end up here?
When did I lose sight?
Desperately looking for past clues,
but I couldn’t cite.
Meanwhile,
a war was brewing between the heart and the mind.
On her the heart was holding so tight,
but the mind pessimistic and diverging,
as it saw a future which wasn’t bright.
Dilemma crippling in, the heart or the mind?
Which one to follow?
Well, your guess is right, I couldn’t decide.
I wanted to be rational thus,
I didn’t pick a side.

All these troubles began,
when I brought her home.
“Mom and Dad, this is my sweetheart Lorain”.
This I said without losing my form.
Both motionless and surprised as if seeing *******.
Disapproval written all over,
their faces could inform.
Of cause they tried to hide it,
But their faces couldn’t transform.
I didn’t understand why,
since I thought I was doing the norm.

Hours passed by,
now Lorain had gone.
I was outside,
enjoying fresh air all alone.
Father approached,
discussing business on his phone.
You’re young son,
don’t worry it’s not yet done.
This he said softly,
before violently another tone,
started making irritating noise,
on his other phone.
He answered,
and the next minute he was gone.

Should a child’s love choice be disapproved?
Worse doing it in this fashion.
His words reaped my heart out,
yes, he did without any compassion.
His behaviour resembled pure Satanism,
completely swiping away any shred of passion.
I could hear my heart screaming for mercy,
the pain felt so unbearable.
Why are some parents like this?
Why being so unreasonable?
I couldn’t answer myself,
as I felt so miserable.

Maybe it’s true what they say,
we should marry to please fam.
But, she makes me happy.
My heart is totally with her.
This is so true,
if I am being fair.
What would you have done?
if this was your affair.
                            The end.

Not gonna give up on you, Ohio
Too many people I love
Hang down your head, Tom Dooley
Thank you, Andy Dove

Holy Toledo, Batman!
Rock n' Roll Hall of Fame
Everybody has a Hungry Heart
I have become a Name

Cousins in Cincinnati
Columbus, your days are numbered
Walnut Heights still delights
Dublin will be thundered

Youngstown live in Youngstown
Mr. Dirda in Sweet Lorain
Toni Morrison too
Beloved in her pain

       O! how I wish that it would rain...

The meaning of our life
Is that we die.
The measure of our life
Is the way we use language.

So said Toni Morrison

I never read her books
But I'm often lonely like Roy Orbison.

Ms. Morrison from Lorain, Ohio
Like bookman Michael Dirda

I read his charming memoir
(Yes, I too am a nerda)

He quoted Cardinal Newman
Careful there, now Michael

He's wiser than Harry Truman
And if you do recycle

Real theological wisdom
You're bound to get my attention

Even if you don't believe
In actual divine intervention

Cardinal Newman quite correct
Like Herman Melville the mystic sailor

"It is a law of God's Providence that we succeed by failure".

Lorain. Dublin. Toledo.
      Walnut Heights.
          Goodbye O!
                Ohio