Most read ▸
Dave Bonta
in the real world
hills are for cemeteries
from a distance the gravestones
might as well be stumps
or teeth waiting for the other
jaw to descend
a woman lets
her rottweiler run
a gravedigger operates
a small backhoe
i browse the headstones
as if they were spines of books
GIVEN says one and i feel guilty
for killing time
try not to look over
at the mountain
The cemetery was rather
Asymmetrical.
It sloped easterly,
Uneven, not neat rows
Of the dead.
Marked and unmarked
Some tombs, sarcophaguses
Some graves marble laid
Shining black.
And then, there were plain, cemented ones.
Carved crosses adorned some
Some had plain solid C-R-O-S-S.
Withered wreaths and bouquets lay around.
It was a winter morning
Mist still slept among the graves.
Slipping over the wall
i felt the morning flush of midnite rain
the way august was in 56 or 7 when i returned
from 4-h camp at alpine wyoming to find
a houseful of our relatives for your funeral
a hopeless congregation of a family
gone bad at the root of charlie rob
you spoke of navajo trading post in Arizona
where we visited your leathery face petrified
wood of curious trinkets made of silver and
turquoise by the indians in your home after the war
you were a licensed vender of goods for
the indians and paid your special fees as i
also pay my special fees for registrin and
withdrawin and registrin at idaho state
you are registerd these few years at mt mccaleb
cemetry amongst the weeds and lilacs and no large
Lest the spirit of wonder be lost
Go to the beach and behold the infinity of the sands,
Go to the library and consult the card catalogue and
behold the magnificent variety of books and periodicals.
Go to the Botanical Gardens and stare at the palm
trees.
Go to the aquarium and see the fish.
Go to work and behold the infinite nature of your tra-
vail.
Go to a cemetery and behold old tombstones.
You can't fool me, you have never lost the spirit of
wonder though perhaps I had and have now regained it from
you.
cold night
the pale glow of headstones
behind the fence
after the rainstorm
all of the old gravestones
still dull gray
sunny day
an old man repainting
the cemetery gate
It was that time of the year, cold and bleak, old dry leaves still on the ground, patches of snow
lingering everywhere in the landscape. I had passed the old cemetery hundreds of times. This
time there was a hint of sun.
early spring
rust down the side
of a gravestone
Yardstick that measured out so many miles of cloth,
Yardstick that covered me,
I wonder do you hop of nights
Out to the still hill-cemetery,
And up and down go measuring
A clayey grave for me?
Along the avenue of cypresses
All in their scarlet cloaks, and surplices
Of linen go the chanting choristers,
The priests in gold and black, the villagers. . . .
And all along the path to the cemetery
The round dark heads of men crowd silently,
And black-scarved faces of women-folk, wistfully
Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery.
And at the foot of a grave a father stands
With sunken head, and forgotten, folded hands;
And at the foot of a grave a mother kneels
With pale shut face, nor either hears nor feels
The coming of the chanting choristers
Between the avenue of cypresses,
The silence of the many villagers,
The candle-flames beside the surplices.