Upon finishing up my finals and juries today, I found my mind in a muddle, so I did the natural thing: I went exploring. In doing such, I happened upon a cemetery and spent a great deal of time wandering and wondering. To any outside observer, I was just another a college girl in an ugly Christmas sweater creeping around for no apparent reason, but really, I was researching. After all, one can learn- or at least imagine- so many things in graveyards, most of which are, surprisingly, more poignant than frightening. And, as many writers would agree, inspiration is always to be found in such places. For example…
Graveyard Library
I went walking through a library.
Well, a graveyard actually.
But both are full of tales,
And wandering down the aisles- or trails-
I read the spines of leather-bound tomes,
Or, rather, faded tombstones.
Between the lines (or dates)
I am left to guess the fates
Of the characters once living.
Over here on my left,
Paule Walde lays at rest.
But why so apart from his wife?
Marie Walde is right there
Though it seems quite unfair.
Where their stories separate in life?
.
Susie Harlem “mother”
And beside her another,
With a stone more elaborate than she.
Was this other loved better
Or simply loved richer?
How small Susie’s script seems to be.
.
And Shirley Ann Southern
Whose time came too sudden,
Plucked like the daisies that bloom here.
She stayed only a day,
In 1940 May.
How sad yet sweet this short page dear.
.
Shirley’s would-be playmate
Naps a few yards away.
Beneath a lone fragile sapling.
Its leaves laugh in the wind
But cannot grief amend.
A short poem, barely a scribbling.
.
Then James of Scotland and
Janine of Switzerland-
Only a marriage date printed.
Why no mention of death?
Do they yet use their breath,
To write a love uncompleted?
.
Then there’s a poor sister
And as she’s the elder,
Waits for her sibling patiently.
But the girl above ground
Tired of hand-me-downs,
Will finish her sequel separately.
.
Miss Charlotte was likely
The town’s brightest beauty.
For without fail as the years pass,
Bonny blue wildflowers
Same as those eyes of hers,
Peak up from the parchment of grass.
.
Strange indeed it might seem
Of all places to dream,
Libraries and graveyards are best.
But both only will grow
As time in its course flows.
And beneath covers and earth
Lies the past.
