Selections

Never alone

in a cemetery,

I walk 

down Millionaire’s Row

whose members 

are just as quiet,

dead silent,

as the common folk.

There are no dolmens, 

menhirs or cromlechs here.

And the obelisks,

rare as they are,

do not compare

to the massive monoliths of old

that once raged out of the ground.

But the same starlings

our ancestors saw,

hundreds and hundreds of them,

still startle en masse

to pulverize the winter sky.

before alighting once more,

dead black, 

upon each silhouetted limb, 

eternally. 

    They’re all here—

both Henrys, Adelaide, Helen,

even “Rose Bud,”

tiny Martha,

who swallowed the fatal pin—

all blanketed now in snow

and silent

as I pass

in winter’s sunlight

on the same hill 

that thirteen horses

overcame as they pulled the huge Frick cenotaph

into place.

Nearby, leafless oaks

encrusted with frozen rain

dangle their diamonds 

before the sleeping family

in a vain attempt

to awaken them.

In a distant part of town,

though anxious for bed, I turn my car

into Mount Lebanon Cemetery instead.

Years ago, my classmate buried there

predicts that by spring he will be dead.

Melanoma is the term he uses.

The headstone shining in my headlights

confirms a passage of twenty years.

Good friend.

Please excuse the delay.

During my time away,

Diane, my wife, dies of cancer

after a brave fight

while I experience 

the ravages of manic/depressive illness

before lithium puts things right.

My tears hidden in darkness

give reason for coming at night.

You’ll find them

in Homewood Cemetery

boy soldiers 

once clad in Union blue—

Emmett, Elroy, Daniel,

Joshua and the rest

many too young for a first love

and all with dreams unfulfilled

spread out in a valley

known as Section 12

beneath headstones

hardly noticeable 

from the road above

asleep in even rows

far from exploding shells,

shrieking horses, 

rattling musketry,

and pounding drums.

Instead, there is only peace

in this quiet place

as the rain offers tears

to wipe away

any inscriptions

tied to their memory.

Eyes, nostrils, lips

each part similar,

but when combined

so distinct—

here a face of pain,

there a mask of hate;

one fights to survive,

the other simply waits to be great,

movement along disparate lines

until death, the great equalizer,

turns all to dust.

Stable boys and kings

after death

show the same amount of rust.