Graveyard Haiku

a headstone
worn unreadable
stone outlived bones

fresh flowers
and wild tufts of grass
tell mixed stories

granite mourners
draped over gravestones,

no pyramid
is so sublime the Pharaoh
welcomed death


the potter’s field
has mystique unknown to

POEM: Stone Weeper

In the graveyard kneel so many mourning, wailing widows and widowers — weak-kneed and hanging off tombstones.

Carved of marble or cast of bronze, and meant to last an eon.

How odd to imagine a permanent mourner.

In the time marble can be carved, I’d prefer any subject on my gravestone to be captured leaning back in a boisterous belly-laugh with a beer can in hand.

POEM: Unfortunate Resting Place

Spanish moss drapes the live oaks,
nightly fog creeps from the sea,
ghosting graves of ancient folk.
The fateful dead, who speak to me:

“We didn’t choose this place to rest our bones.
“Were we free, you’d elsewhere find our stones.
“Visit us, you must, in this eerie home,
“Just please don’t leave us here alone.”

DAILY PHOTO: Church at Tims Ford, Tennessee

On a cloudy night, this place would be CREEPY!

On a cloudy night, this place would be CREEPY!

Have you ever seen an idyllic, pristine setting, and thought, Under different circumstances this would be the perfect location for a horror film?

That was my feeling as I walked out of the woods and saw this solitary, white church and its graveyard on a hill in central nowhere (No offense, Tennessee.) Picture what this place would be like under a low, roiling, gray clouds. It’s spitting cold rain, the graveyard is leaf-strewn. From which grave will a clawing hand protrude? You don’t know. You don’t know.