Graven Images
In the Cemetery
away from the paved
and gravel ways,
walking on sod,
beneath large pines,
a grey forecast, drizzle
seeping in --
suddenly, a "V"
of mole tunnel across the path --
a checkmark caterpillar
of raised needles --
wings
of a buried bird struggling
towards flight.
Driftwood
a smooth wooden hump, or is it
the rump of a goose whose head
is underwater searching for food
next to a knot-eyed, multi-antlered
being that points in all directions
at once --
both forms arising
out of the muck on the other side
of the island --
visible only
from the foot path winding around
the back side of the pond, the slums
of the cemetery --
garbage
and rusted metal set like stones
in the hillside --
away from
the paved roads, the live geese,
the well combed suburban graves --
back here -- the reverse spin,
the driftwood appears alive;
the geese might well be
dead wood.
Veterans Island
I circle warily the island
of gravestones with limp flags
in the brown grass, surrounded
by an asphalt sea --
intrigued
by the flock -- 45 geese, some
basking, some strutting amongst
the flags and stones --
thinking
of all the goose stepping soldiers
that died for their country, and the
doughboys that died for us, that we
may be more or less free . . .
thinking how one of these graves,
one of the withering wreaths w/
faded red ribbons and pine cones,
could have been mine . . .
thinking
41 years ago -- me, a soldier!
an infantry radioman, on alert
in Schweinfurt -- boots spit polished,
duffel bag packed, M-1 rifle cleaned,
belt full of live ammo, ready, eager,
and willing to go
to kill
or be killed . . .
thinking poet now --
rush of would be ecstatic breath vibrating
Aolean cords -- music more or less
escaping through half open lips . . .
thinking poet or soldier, soldier,
poet, soldier/poet or poet/soldier --
it availeth not --
thin staffs of
dinky flags will snap in the wind --
flocks of geese will still trumpet
awkward honking notes of blame
or praise --
and geese will
still shit on your grave.
Two Geese
awkwardly floating in the pond in the center of the cemetery white breasts showing, glowing in sunlight -- white reflections shimmering in the blue sky, in the slight breeze, in the still murky brown water. I toss a stone, then a large stick that floats between them. They do not move. They are lying on their backs. One's velvet black stocking neck is twisted at an unnatural angle, the other's neck and head -- an arrow extended straight out, pointing beak under water -- not breathing; neither is breathing -- both are what we would call dead, while on the high ground on the far side that I, myself, return to again and again, Charles Ives rests beneath the epitaph from Psalms, "Awake Psaltery and harp: I, myself, will awake right early." -- the high ground where an artist rests with his beloved harmony, his dissonant honking reflective notes rippling upward and outward in larger, fainter circles.
The Moss: Three views
This March, this side a cluster of graves, see: vague outlines of a man, wife and family merged and merging dark souls weeping spirit tears, life seeping through, staining the sod, softening the crust of years, the toasted earthen morsel of flesh . . . the splotches of open sores, mold spreading on sere skin, the abnormal cells we call our selves spreading over the surface of the world . . . the forest green lily pads lazing in a pond of dead grass.
The Tree of "True Love"
This magnificent spreading beechnut tree, planted here, on the highest ground, on the roof of the cemetery with so many scars of initials cut into its bark -- unknown x's and Oh's, a game plan, oodles of hearts and plus signs, a "Mark loves Petty" and "true love" loud and clear, near the base of the trunk while amongst the serpentine roots, in the pressed brown down grass, lay the remnants that survived the winter -- spiny husks of dark nut shells and a memento -- an empty yellow square tinfoil package with surface words: "Trojans," "ribbed and lubricated," -- plain words -- deceptively simple -- hostile armies still squirming inside.
Fourth Day
dead goose -- large white breast stuffed with gas from decaying flesh -- appears as a trussed fowl on its back, thighs up in drumstick position -- covered by a see-through saran wrap of fresh March air, baking in the blue oven of the sun -- look closely, look clearly, the red button has popped -- it's done!
Cemetery Pond: the Back Side
sheets of cardboard, twisted
shopping cart, scraps of paper,
old and moldy rugs, slimy black
rotting leaves,
curved bald
gray head of tire rising up
out of and leaning over
the sewer colored surface,
and a large see through,
filled with garbage, prophylactic
plastic bag, tightly tied,
floating, buoyant,
as if
protecting the pond, the driftwood,
the memorial flags and stones, the dead
geese (and humans too) from the virus
to end all viruses. . .
the prophylactic,
too little, too late . . .
like turning off your oven
after your goose is cooked.
The Crucifixion
Odd sight in the pond, blue
blind man's cane with white tip,
lying across the twisted neck
of a goose, dead --
strange -- two spots of white --
the white tip and that one dash
of white on the head, off to
one side, hanging in sorrow:
two spots of white -- could be:
two crusts of bread, two droppings
of excrement, two small hollow
cylinders, two eyes
looking into
who was it anyway who asked
this silly goose to die for me
yesterday . . .
or rise
for me tomorrow?
The White Finger
of dead or dying branch on the top of an otherwise healthy pine -- knobby, knuckled finger pointing straight up -- a gesture, like the top mast of the Pequod . . . while from above, the evergreen in the pond -- from up here the white finger becomes: a lightning rod, a burning white crack attracting sunlight, with all its colors -- drawing aurorae borealis and australis into the liquid blue heaven within . . . an inverted steeple, pointing away from blame and guilt, toward healing . . . a shining needle, sewing up the wound religions leave inside the center of the world.
All Christmas Displays
are to be removed
by 3-1-00, reads the small sign
below the large "NO TRESPASSING,
NO SKATING" nailed to the tree
on the shore of the pond --
today, the first day of spring,
we see they mean it -- there
behind the pond, between the piles
of wood chips and the stagnant water
with rotting blackened leaves
is a mound of old wreaths,
and pine cones, red ribbons,
broken latticework, scaffolding,
green plastic pots and flower beds,
withered plants and all -- heaped
together,
all Christmas displays
in the fresh spring air waiting
to be burned -- and/or buried
in an unmarked grave.
The Tomb
of the unknown citizen, this
thin weather beaten blank slate
with a curved rain washed head
above the stone shoulders,
a dark cloaked hunchback rising
out of moss splotched ground -- under
an overcast roof of casket sky,
a ghostly figure, with a grackle --
or is it a raven perched on
the left shoulder,
the barely visible
grey stone covered with dirt and one
vaguely human blotch of mold with
outstretched arms:
a dark green ghost within the grey
within this messenger of mist . . .
yet, the tidings so stark, so clear --
no names, no dates, the thin veneer
of runes erased --
a person lived;
a person died, is buried here --
that's all we know . . .
that and,
oh, yes, one last detail --
the black bird flew away
at my approach.
Thirteenth Day
not the crucified male, the other one -- the dead goose that baked in the sun's oven, has risen -- someone who loved her has lifted her out of the pond -- her soft downed brown breast is resting peacefully on mulch, now -- as if brooding over eggs in an open air nest, beneath a cloudless sky in the hollowed out stump of what was once two connected trees -- a much more hallowed spot than the sogging pond -- or Calvary, for that matter -- I lean over, stroke her dry feathers -- fare thee well, my friend, sleep tight for all of us.
Under the Influence
of the sun -- you miss the drab daubs of geese stuck in the muddy brown canvas shade -- you see only life dancing on the water, on the far side of the pond in the center of the cemetery; you see only a rippling flock of light, wings of fire, winking, fluttering, in no hurry to take off . . . a gaggle of stars twinkling in the bluest sky . . .
The Lightning Struck Hemlock --
behind us and beyond the noose
of road around the graves -- dead
tree -- tall, straight, pale bleached
trunk rising 50, 60 ' out of a charred,
blackened base -- only dark stubs
of limbs sticking out of their sockets,
small pointers, spikes, a ladder for
the electrical repair man to climb
into emerging spring sky -- and veins
so dry, the toxic juice all fried away --
with a trinity of grackle flying
in wary tentative circles above
the remains --
as if death, itself
had died, and they were afraid
to touch the stiff carrion.
One Last Time
we visit the dead goose. Someone has
disturbed her rest in the hallowed,
hollowed-out nest in the single stump
of the two married trees.
A passerby,
annoyed, perhaps, by the faint whiff
of death, has tossed her back
into the pond.
We think of the succession of images --
light then dark then light then dark -- up
then down -- these yo-yo images of death
in this yo-yo world,
(this plaything
on a string, this spinning globe flicked
down then pulled back by that great finger
in the sky.)
The current has freed her
from the roots of the pine tree island;
she lies here, waterlogged, bloated,
barely afloat in sewer-brown water --
here, at our feet beneath the tufts
of emerging spring grass -- here,
near the end of the pond where water
funnels into the narrow ribbed pipe;
the yo-yo is down now, and
the goose is beginning to smell.
The stench fills the nostrils
in the heads bent down --
bowed over her;
yes,
the yo-yo is down now -- "sleeping"
some people would call it,
even though
the spin has stopped.
Spring
the two wood ducks -- the shiny green headed male and soft brown camouflaged female together looking for a place to nest in the clear water of the small river winding behind the mountain of graves . . . the geese that mate for life -- females waddling beside males strutting their stuff on the shore -- the flock of geese pairing off in the pond . . . and the birds that mock whatever sounds others make, the music of birds, the creak of doors -- or caskets, the mocking birds mating in the bushes near the entrance . . .
The Teddy Bear
small, grey, and still soggy from last night's storm, dressed in bright yellow and lilac -- spring colors shiny but drying in early May sun -- lying back on soft pad of forest green moss -- lazing under white blossoms and flitting birds -- viewing the neat white pile of sunlit wood chips out of the corner of your eye -- no answer in sight to why, to what you are doing here -- not Puff, the magic dragon, nor the little tin soldier -- no reason, therefore no sadness, no madness in you, a toy without weapons, without flaming breath, or love -- so comfy, resting here, an ornament, you could care less that you've been blown away from some child's grave.
Stirring of Life
in the cemetery, old ladies
wandering amongst the stones,
workmen raking away remnants
of winter, spreading mulch,
cars moving slowly, waiting
for me to get out of the way --
human beings taking their own
sweet time, like the couple
on the backside of the lookout,
playing in the sun -- the young
man with a brown beard, vaguely
resembling the image of Jesus,
sitting on the slanted ground,
head bowed, the woman behind him,
sitting on the nape of his neck,
looking up the hill at the rim
of graves
suddenly he bows
his head even further, and she
slips surprised, and laughing
into his lap, into his arms,
as he is in hers, surprised,
facing each other, as if
for the first time . . .
The Raccoon
Walking in comfortable May shade
along the grassy path by the bank
of the Still River
a raccoon,
a night animal, disoriented, sick
with rabies, perhaps --
appears to be strolling across
for a morning swim or drink, perhaps
of clear water --
he sees me
and scurries back to his burrow
in the hillside beneath the cluster
of graves and the moss bed sprawled
around the tree of "true love" --
look -- he's still there, his eyes
gleaming, glowing in his black head
in a black hole in the black earth
waiting for this too to pass.
Two Directions
Turn away from the breast and wing bones of what was once a dead goose -- just bones now picked clean by grackle and licked cleaner by April rain -- the bones brown and blown dry -- the soft feathers carried away to wherever it is feathers go on a May breeze. Walk around, on the grave side of the path, away from the pond, so as not to disturb the two proud beaming parent geese and the so, so tiny four lemon puff goslings, beneath the white blossoms breathing -- gently rising and falling like white feathers, like the sleeping breast of one who is loved.
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