Shiver & Cry
I walk the graveyard
because that's where
our souls already are
I touch an elbow raw
beneath the heavenly
fir trim and wonder if
your flesh feels the bark
if you can still drink in
the stars for this is how
we are still communing
on the peripheries of our
morning and death so
close to the park of bodies
dismembered from afar
and tormented apart...
tombstones like tears
and bruises marking
each familiar spot...
#ToWalkTheGraveyard #Challenge
Our Graveyard
It’s near the end of one of the two roads that make up a tiny little town in western maine. A little grave yard with maybe fifty gravestones in it. Ten or so have my last name on them. I only know the person under one of those gravestones, my grandmother who I barely remember, just the idea of a smile, and a thought of her arthritic hands. My dad would always stop on the way home to look at that stone, a way to ease out the dust of grief. My grandfather would visit sometimes too, take four of his sons and walk among the stones, tell a story of the many grave stones he knew. The uncle of his shot in world war two, who had survived because of a bible or a tin of tabaco infront of his heart and then died of old age.
But next to my grandmother there is a space missing a stone, where two slabs of dirt have been placed back on the ground, and rain has hidden the lines. Under that there is a container that holds a box of my father’s ashes, a folded paper of instructions, and a bottle of glue. We haven’t found a headstone yet, eventually we will, a natural stone from the river that the road follows. Dad would like that we hope. And on it my parents names will be put, and then when my mother dies we will pull back those two chunks of dirt and pull out the paper and the glue. And then as we were told on the day we buried our father, us children will bury our parents, gluing the container closed and shoving it back in the ground. The uncles that buried it the first time will probably be dead by then, so we’ll shovel the dirt ourselves. The glue and the directions we’ll throw away, eager to be rid of them. Then when we walk the graveyard we’ll see three people we knew, one nearly forgoten, two filled with aching memories, and many more, the stories of which we’ll have forgotten. And we’ll stop when we’re leaving, maybe trailing our own kids behind, but probably we’ll be alone, alone and letting their stories drift away in the dust of grief that we let looses from our hearts, born by the soft wind filled with black flies that we used to walk through without caring.
GRAVE!
Tommy yawned. He really hated his late shifts guarding in the cemetery. His boss had told him to walk around the graveyard, and make sure that all was in order. He marched about his post, then later decided to take a quick nap.
A little farther away from his resting position, the ground near one of the graves began to crack. A hand emerged from the grave. The creature moaned. It looked around and saw someone fast asleep.
Tommy stretched his hands and bumped into something. He opened his eyes & stared at the thing. It stared back at him and then snarled. Tommy fell backwards and landed on his derrière. The creature crouched down and crawled toward Tommy.
It placed its hands on Tommy’s shoulders and pinned him down. Tommy cried out. The thing sank its teeth into Tommy’s neck. In a short moment, it later used its hands to pull Tommy’s head apart. And feasted on his brain.
#GRAVE!
The Visitor
To walk the graveyard is a funny thing.
I’ve been coming here since I can remember, so I’m used to it, of course. One wouldn’t think that it’s a place of death and sorrow, not when there’s so much life. Stray dogs and cats have taken refuge in the calm here, and cats, being cats, have an affinity for curling up on gravestones. The grass underneath my feet doesn’t so much as bend when I tread on it, lush and green. Well, I think, it’s certainly getting enough nutrients. That’s the other thing about walking the graveyard: it gives you a morbid sense of humor.
In a way, it’s nice to see so many loved ones here for the dead. Their families, friends, lovers, even dogs are long gone, but they’re very present in the hearts of the living. I do what I can to ease their sorrow. If only they understood that the dead are the lucky ones, or at least that’s what I’ve heard. I pat a shoulder here and there, brush stray auburn locks out of a young woman’s face; her eyes fly to me with a gasp, and then she’s crying again. I’m sure the wound is too fresh, too new. At least she didn’t run away. Some people do, perhaps offended at their grieving being interrupted by a well-meaning stranger. In any case, no matter what I do, it doesn’t help for long.
I go back to the grave I’m here for and run a hand along its cold surface. Maybe it’s too cold; I can’t really feel it anymore. I don’t remember who I’m here to see; I never do. I know the first few times I walked the graveyard, I had someone in mind, a child, a girl. I think she was blonde or brunette or--well, I can’t remember. It’s been too long. I wish I remembered her, but when one is walking the graveyard, it’s hard not to feel at peace about things.
I pick myself up, clear the residue of something suspiciously salty from my eyes, and wait by my grave. I haven’t had a visitor for a while now, not since that girl stopped coming, but it’s never too late to hope. It’s only been a couple hundred years.
@demcmurphy
Fire Girl’s Grave
"She lived before she died," are the words inscribed in stone. Calloused fingers brush the words, which are barely visible now in the cemetery dying light. The young man kneels by the grave, presses his hands into the dirt just to feel closer to her, and lets another tear water the ground where the flowers planted by her funeral procession are in bloom. A deep groan wants to rise up from his gut, but he suppresses it. It's all so wrong- it should have been him- she was too good, too full of life... It should have been him.
He stands to his feet, wipes his soiled hands on his jeans, and picks a violin case from the ground.
"For you," he whispers, and he plays.
The music goes on and on and on, rising, falling, haunting, and that old violin in its young musician's hands creaks out a sad song to the girl who briefly was and never more will be. In the stillness, in the emptiness and deadness of the summer night, the tune fills the cemetery like a ghost. Every night the ghost appears, the music plays, and fresh tears fall on the still fresh grave of the girl who danced with fire.
Whistles of the Aftermath
The deep octaves
of the wind pull me in
beyond the black picket fence.
The weight of the air
decreases from the lack
of breath and high count
of lost souls.
My eyes blacken
as a sea of vampire bats
form a shadow in the sky.
There's something about their presence
that adds a royal darkness
to the weeping willows.
Buried beneath my feet
are stories untold.
Decaying faces
chewed apart
thanks to the creatures of the soil.
Isn’t it ironic
that they eat the dead
to stay alive?
Long Gone
I've dreamt of a summer.
It was a picture, old and gray, tattered and worn out,
a resident of an old jacket pocket, filled with
dust and sand, coins and memories
long gone.
Yes, I've dreamt of a summer, I've dreamt
an old man remembering the warm southern wind
that carried a whisper of a past long forgotten,
long gone.
It was a fading memory, his mind,
and everything he knew and cherished slowly disappeared
like an untold dream, like a whisper in the wind, like an old tale,
long gone.
There was nothing left but the summer and its warm breeze
and the shade of an oak tree in the graveyard, where he goes
and doesn't know why, and where he cries for somebody
long gone.
Paranoia
Behind the rusty creaking gates, your first steps drown in the humid ground. Mud captures the ankles, solidifying, keeping you away like a wise elder shaking their prophetic cane: go back! Beware… No wonder. Echoing from the tombstones, music fills the air. Whispers of foreign languages, humming choirs as a keynote against your cracking steps; you aren’t welcome here. A disturbance to the peace of death, only to repent by becoming one with the eternal silence. How did you get there? It’s surreal, stepping through the mist, the smell of rot lingering in your nose; vomit inducing, but not enough to make you pause your walk. Despite the shivers running down your spine, despite the warning signs, turning to face the darkness you arrived from seems even worse than continuing your walk along the dimly lit path in-between the graves. Something cracks beneath your feet, and you imagine ancient bones falling apart to dust- but by the time you glance down, the human remains become nothing more than a couple of stones. Ahead of your path you notice a shadow of a humanoid posture: elongated limbs hanging down, slouched like a predator preparing its attack. Your throat clenches, whole organism tensing up to fight or flight. The creature flashes its yellow, fiery eyes, spreads the intimidating wings and- in proximity, it’s quite obviously an immobile statue, two snitches illuminating its stone face and fossil tears. Before you can let out a sigh of relief, goosebumps rush through your skin, raising your body hair as thin fingers trace through the line of your ankle. Your gasp exhales a cloud of steam, freezing in the cold air of the night. Not daring to check whether the hand is just like you imagine it to be: rotting, bones revealed, covered in slime and crawling worms, you begin to run. Attentive to the surrounding noises but with eyes now shut, you’d rather believe that you’re the only source of the thumping and panting that disrupts the silence. A wet drop lands on your nose – is it the beast’s saliva, already drooling ready to devour you? The fear whistles through your head, deafening. Spawns flashes in front of your eyes, blinding. The circle narrows, traps you inside, gruesome faces and undead cries from every side. They’re touching you. Infecting with their sickness. There’s no more escape. No matter how fast you run.
Once again behind the gates, you regain your composure. In the morning, you’ll find the branches that became hands, the traces of rain, the calmness in the silence. The statue will seem thoughtful; the mud nothing more than mildly annoying in its stickiness.
For to walk the graveyard is to walk through your state of mind.
Among The Tombstones
A once smartly manicured lawn,
holding headstones new,
headstones faded,
... headstones.
They are the final telling:
a name,
a birth,
a death.
The final journey,
the last home,
no more anticipation,
no more worries.
In this squared circle,
seventy-five stones;
stones that if thought upon,
could tell us a history.
Mother, father,
grandparents,
wife, husband,
son and daughter.
Countless others,
who count in someone's eyes,
someone's heart,
someone's memory.
All, in that final sweet repose.
The greatest journey taken,
the greatest journey ended.
... the last true place of peace.
Whispering a few words, I walk away.
So much love among these tombstones.
