My son asked how much a tombstone costs.
Depends if you want an angel
to
watch over you.
We trace ancestry through the graveyard
and calculate dates—how common it was to
bury babies.
Some lucky souls merit saintly companions
who guard their tombs with outstretched
arms.
Or even a wrought iron fence to ward off vagrants.
But look how the monied died just as young.
At the rear of the yard are the stones we
can’t read,
their shallow etchings mildewed and faded.
Bare of epitaph, they lean against each
other.
Even their stones are tired.
Then there are the markers that only bear a
number,
Like the tattooed at Auschwitz,
like the burial ground at the asylum.
One straggler is off alone and we wonder
if he wanted it so.
The rounded stone juts white from Earth
like a tooth.
And what of those who couldn’t even get
inside the fence—
separated from the gilded, even here.
10 comments:
Such evocative and poignant observations--the young mother, those by themselves--
Graveyards are fascinating.
It was great that you came and listened today!
That was Dwight who read the poem about the cemetery. It was nice to see you visiting today Yvonne, maybe in the future you can join in to read. It’s fun! I don’t know which part of the world are you from, but the discussion today about offering two different times for the Open link night live get together‘s may work better for everybody who’s part of diverse, because I know we cover the globe. I like the piece you’ve written here, very moving and poignant. Old graveyards are fascinating, the stones themselves telltales beyond what simply inscribed.
This is incredibly poignant, Yvonne. It was wonderful having you with us at dVerse LIVE today. Thank you so much for coming 💘💘
Yeah, me too. There, muted, camera off, just diggin the readers. I jump in most months but today....nah.
Love your cemetery piece. More, please.
Really like your graveyard poem. It is exactly how we think as we walk among the stone musing over who they were and what our connections might be. I really liked this line: But look how the monied died just as young.
It was good to have you join us. We are a very laidback bunch, so don't worry about how you look. We take you any way you come.
I am happy you were inspired to write this one.
Dwight
Merril,
Thank you. It was fun and inspiring. With no access to a writer's group in the boondocks that was nice.
Rob,
Yes, I found it on Dwight's blog. I'm in Michigan, the heart of the Upper Midwest. It was cool seeing everyone. Thanks!
Sanaa,
Thanks so much. It was great hearing you read. I will join again.
Ron,
Yeah, me too. Diggin' it! I tried briefly to figure it out, at least the microphone so I could talk but wasn't prepared to turn on my stupid camera in my state of disarray. Glad you liked this old piece. One more of hundreds that never found a home.
Hi Dwight,
Great to meet you and hear your voice. Yes, cemeteries are cool, yet borderline eerie. Seeing how often babies died in the eighteen hundreds and early nineteen hundreds made me realize how far we've come with medical advances and how important vaccinations are.
Thanks!
So much to contemplate when visiting a cemetery... Here in Sweden, there is often a sign informing that a place is soon up for grabs unless someone pays for the place... Often the grave is not so much about the person who died but of those who stayed behind.
Hi Brudberg,
How interesting. I agree, it's mostly about those who are left behind. Thanks.
We don't bury the dead, but I think cemeteries are an everlasting connection between those gone and those left behind. Very poignant write, Yvonne.
Thanks Paean. I feel that way about my parents and grandparents burial place, somewhere I can drop my dried delphiniums in the summer. When you don't bury them is the connection inside? spiritual? curious.
Every time I see your handle I want to call you Sweet Pea. Sorry!
Post a Comment