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Autobiography (Polish It Like A Piece of Silver)

I am standing in the cemetery at Byrds, Texas.
What did Judy say? 'God-forsaken is beautiful, too.'
A very old man who has cancer on his face and takes
care of the cemetery, is raking a grave in such a
manner as to almost (polish it like a piece of silver.

poem by Richard Brautigan
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Just love the Cemetery

one thing about grave
about the cemetery that i like
they are all so real, real as death
and the people who come visiting
they come with their real self
laugh, smile or tears they are
all so reall, for there is no more need
to fake one's feeling, put on a face
everything is now known to the dead
or remains forever unknown
there is a quietness in the grave
and the cemetery that i like
it is the ingratiating quietness
that is so soothing to the soul
the calm acceptance of life
that to die is also a part of living

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Soothing graves

one thing about grave
about the cemetery that i like
they are all so real, real as death
and the people who come visiting
they come with their real self
laugh, smile or tears they are
all so reall, for there is no more need
to fake one's feeling, put on a face
everything is now known to the dead
or remains forever unknown
there is a quietness in the grave
and the cemetery that i like
it is the ingratiating quietness
that is so soothing to the soul
the calm acceptance of life
that to die is also a part of living

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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A Jewish Cemetery In Germany

On a little hill amid fertile fields lies a small cemetery,
a Jewish cemetery behind a rusty gate, hidden by shrubs,
abandoned and forgotten. Neither the sound of prayer
nor the voice of lamentation is heard there
for the dead praise not the Lord.
Only the voices of our children ring out, seeking graves
and cheering
each time they find one--like mushrooms in the forest, like
wild strawberries.
Here's another grave! There's the name of my mother's
mothers, and a name from the last century. And here's a name,
and there! And as I was about to brush the moss from the name--
Look! an open hand engraved on the tombstone, the grave
of a kohen,
his fingers splayed in a spasm of holiness and blessing,
and here's a grave concealed by a thicket of berries
that has to be brushed aside like a shock of hair
from the face of a beautiful beloved woman.

Translated by Chana Bloch and Chana Kronfeld

poem by Yehuda Amichai
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Cemetery In My Mind

Locked in the mall in a state of fright
Looking for salvation in a car headlight
But you cant have what you cant buy
Tomorrow is better than yesterday,
Tomorrow is better than today,
Tomorrow is better than yesterday they say
Cemetery in my mind
Cemetery in my mind
This must be my time
Wake work drink sleep retire
Tide comes up way too high
You can fall but can you rise
Cemetery in my mind,
You can fall but can you rise
Theres no pulse no sign of life,
Cemetery in my mind.

song performed by by Midnight Oil
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The cemetery of the victims of human cruelty in our century is extended to include yet another vast cemetery, that of the unborn.

quote by Pope John Paul II
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cemetery Drive

cemetery drive,
covered in mist,
driving down the road,
so cold,
the crypts and tombstones cast dark shadow,
the bats and the wind,
grimly howl,
cemetery drive,
a place of shadow,
cemetery drive,
tall dead trees,
comfort the dead,
black roses grow along the road,
they fight the cold,
and give the living hope,
the living hope their hearts never stop,
and they'll never have to call cemetery drive home,
and tend to the shadows and black roses

poem by Catie Belle Stark
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I have two brothers buried in the military cemetery in Texas. I don't want to see any more of that.

quote by F. Murray Abraham
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Improvisations: Light And Snow: 04

On the day when my uncle and I drove to the cemetery,
Rain rattled on the roof of the carriage;
And talkng constrainedly of this and that
We refrained from looking at the child’s coffin on the seat before us.
When we reached the cemetery
We found that the thin snow on the grass
Was already transparent with rain;
And boards had been laid upon it
That we might walk without wetting our feet.

poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Lilydale

[ music: robert buck/lyric: natalie merchant ]
Come as we go far away
From the noise of the street
Walk a path so narrow
To a place where we feel at ease
Some think it is haunting
To be drawn to the cemetery ground
As we
Theres a stillness here
Thankful found
Childs pose angelic
A stone lamb at her feet
Part the matted overgrowth
To read the carven elegy
Some think it so haunting
To be drawn to the cemetery ground
As we
Theres a stillness here
Thankful found
Born in new albion
Of rice family elite
Wed to myron bilowe
Thrice with sons
Blessed was she
Some think it so haunting
To be drawn to the cemetery ground
As we
Gods acre is a fenced in
Hollow ground
Here soon to rise up
Amelia tender and sweet
Her last words spoke
All is well
All is peace
Some think it so haunting
To be drawn to the cemetery ground
As we
Gods acre is a fenced in
Hollow ground

song performed by by 10000 Maniacs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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End Of Line

End of the Line

Old man, yes, you who walk near the houses on the pavement
down the street using a cane, is there something wrong with
your hips? Hey! Old man when you see a group of youngsters
standing by the corner you feel fear, and if they make fun of
the way you walk you pretend not to hear only try to walk faster.
It didn’t used to be like this you looked the world in the eye as
you broad shouldered swaggered down the street of life, no one
dared to challenge you then; you didn’t know it was going to end
like this. Hey! Old man your life is behind you and your future is
the grave, and your walk often takes you to the cemetery where
you often go and read the names of people you used to know.
You live in pain- tell me way- most of the time, watch irrelevant
news TV, while drinking a little whisky. Every Saturday you go
the café and drink beer with other old men, only there are so few
of them now. Hey! Old man with a foot in the grave, in your dream
you are still virile and when you wake up you feel young until you
see the cane or your face in the unforgiving mirror. Yet you go on
living your loveless life in the hope of seeing another spring and
see the blossoming of the almond tree.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Fantasy

I'll tell you something: every day
people are dying. And that's just the beginning.
Every day, in funeral homes, new widows are born,
new orphans. They sit with their hands folded,
trying to decide about this new life.

Then they're in the cemetery, some of them
for the first time. They're frightened of crying,
sometimes of not crying. Someone leans over,
tells them what to do next, which might mean
saying a few words, sometimes
throwing dirt in the open grave.

And after that, everyone goes back to the house,
which is suddenly full of visitors.
The widow sits on the couch, very stately,
so people line up to approach her,
sometimes take her hand, sometimes embrace her.
She finds something to say to everbody,
thanks them, thanks them for coming.

In her heart, she wants them to go away.
She wants to be back in the cemetery,
back in the sickroom, the hospital. She knows
it isn't possible. But it's her only hope,
the wish to move backward. And just a little,
not so far as the marriage, the first kiss.

poem by Louise Gluck
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Heavy hands lift axe,
Dig a grave at cemetery;
Light drizzle from sky.

haiku by Mamta Agarwal
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A Dialogue

An old man; hunchback
He was carrying some firewood's
And he is passing the old graveyard towards his cottage.
He said that he heard a dialogue
Between the child who was buried yesterday
And the oldest tomb was in the cemetery.

New Grave: Grandpa is you still living?
I hear your breathing.

Old Grave: My son I learned to breathe here.
The world is full of puff,
What else?

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Afternoon In The Cemetery

A dog with a lame leg drags itself around the tombs
Mrs. watson talks with someone whos been dead for years
A sickly smell of urine rising from her tights
Two old ladies on a park bench sitting silent already dead
What a wonderfull place to have a cup of tea
What a wonderfull place to read a book bout love
What a wonderfull place to sit around with me under a tree
On an afternoon in the cemetery
Millions of flies spiral around a cross before they land
In a fresh grave someone dug last night
The little chappel looks so sad even the flowers seem to cry
And all those people seem to wait for the moment they will die
What a wonderfull place to have a cup of tea
What a wonderfull place to read a book bout
What a wonderfull place to sit around with me under a tree
On an afternoon in the cemetery

song performed by by Fury In The Slaughterhouse
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cemetary Gates

Reverend, reverend,
Is this a conspiracy?
Crucified for no sins
No revenge... beneath me.
Lost within my plans for life,
It all seems so unreal.
Im a man cut in half in this world,
Left in my misery.
(instrumental)
The reverend he turned to me
Without a tear in his eyes.
Its nothing new for him to see,
I didnt ask him why.
I will remember...
The love our souls had sworn to make.
Now I watch the falling rain
All my mind can see now is your (face).
Well I guess
You took my youth
And gave it all away.
Like the birth of a new found joy,
This love would end in rage...
And when she died
I couldnt cry,
The pride within my soul.
You left me incomplete
All alone as the memories now unfold.
Believe the word.
I will unlock my door...
And pass the cemetery gates.
Sometimes when Im alone,
I wonder aloud,
If youre watching over me
Some place far abound.
I must reverse my life
I cant live in the past.
Then set my soul free,
Belong to me at last.
Through all those complex years
I thought I was alone.
I didnt care to look around
And make this world my own...
And when she died
I shouldve cried and spared myself some pain.
You left me incomplete,
All alone as the memories still remain.
The way we were,
The chance to save my soul...
And my concern is now in vain.
Believe the word,
I will unlock my door...
And pass the cemetery... gates
(instrumental)
The way we were,
The chance to save my soul...
And my concern is now in vain.
Believe the word,
I will unlock my door...
And pass the cemetery...
Gates!
Gates!
Gates!

song performed by by Pantera
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stranger

I met him on the way last sunday
He said that he is a Postmaster
I said how glad to meet him
and I gave him some letters to post.
I met him again, yes the same person on monday.
He said that he knows my father and he too a blacksmith.
Then I gave him a knife to sharpen.
I met him at the cemetery gravel road on Tuesday.
Yes, the same gentleman.
He said that he is a Pawnbroker, he knows my mother well
and he lives behind the cemetery.
I gave him my wedding ring and begged for money.
He took it and ran away.
One day when I was just passing the graveyard I saw his tomb with a photograph.
and this was written.
'Once a post master
and a blacksmith
killed a pawnbroker
died as a gambler'

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Kennedy had been assassinated a month or so before. So we walked to the grave of John Kennedy and ended our walking symbolically at the Arlington National Cemetery.

quote by Satish Kumar
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Purple Sage

Purple sage is a beautiful thing,
Flowering in violet,
In winter or spring.

The leaves vary from silver to green,
It grows wild in Texas,
Of the wild it's the king.

Flowers are white, purple, or pink,
But only the purple,
Makes you mind stop and think.

Songs and stories, have come down through time,
Of the purple sage,
In it's inhospitable climes.

If your'e ever in Texas, come check it out,
Cause the purple sage,
Is what Texas is about.

11/15/10 Alton Texas

poem by Juan Olivarez
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If Only I Could Dream

TELL ME, GOD!
that you'l let me dream,

that I'l dream of a heaven
I shall never see,

that I'l dream of a hell
that has no pain.

that I'l dream that one day
that I'l dream that I wake!

TELL ME I'L DREAM
that my mother never died!
Tell me I'l dream
there were tears in her eyes!
Tell me I'l dream
of the first light of day,
TELL ME I'L DREAM!
and I'l dream that I wake!

For in a grave!
all the rest of my time,
In a grave!
in the hell where I lie!

In a grave!
where forever I'l sleep,

I'd dream of God,

..........If only I could dream

poem by Cemetery man
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Ottomans

Will the Sun
Ever rise again
O'er this cemetery
Where the Romantic

Is buried alive? This
Appian Way, Death's Expressway
Exclusively for de la Artist?
I hope not-

it hurts to see my compatriots
Die and go unappreciated Like this. My
Persecution never ends. This Orwellian
World wants me dead. My pain

drains itself away onto paper
Exactly (like a carbon copy) in the the style of how

My blood spatters the canvas.

(2 July 2008)
(Justin, Texas)

poem by John Parsons
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