Cemetery Walk
A single crocus rises early, in front of a tombstone labeled Coy. Forsythia spills beyond its row. I wend my way around the wild yellow and find Knickerbockers, Jewel and C.C, both long gone. There is a family named True, and one of their daughters married a Creamer son. They lie in ground as dark as coffee, and don’t we all prefer what’s true with a spoon of sugar or a splash of cream? There are surprises in a cemetery. For example, a woman named Birdella, another named Arthusa, and a man with my favorite name of all: Horatio Pleasants. There is also a pond and a fountain and ducks rise up out of the water, then shake their butts to dry their feathers, which gives me a picture of a sort of heaven, where we rise like birds from our earthly bath, then shimmy our way to the shining beyond. Maybe the angels wiggle a welcome. This might not be true, but it’s pleasant.
Photo by Ravi Singh on Unsplash
The Prompt
There are as many poems in a cemetery as there are bodies buried, trees budding, flowers blooming, bouquets wilting, and ducks wiggling. Which is to say there are a lot of poems, waiting to be penned, within the walls of every graveyard. Of course, that’s also my opinion of every park, garden, house, office, grocery store, you name it. The question isn’t whether there’s content for a poem in this place or that, it’s whether we’re attuned to the ache, the beauty, the absurdity, the suffering, the irony, the harmony, the hilarity that are present in every moment.
I am not always attuned. But a walk in a cemetery has a weird way of bringing me home to myself and home to the strange gift of the present moment. For today’s prompt, I invite you to take find a way to connect—gently—with the fact of your mortality. Take a walk in a cemetery, or take a walk in nature and notice what’s passing away—what’s decomposing or changing from one state to another? Of course, you can also reflect on your mortality from the comfort of your own couch if you prefer. This might feel like a heavy reflection. It might pull grief or fear with it. Go easy. Be gentle with yourself. And as with every prompt, remember that this is an invitation, not an assignment! There’s also this possibility, though: connecting with your mortality might also feel like a reset—a reorienting toward the richness of the present.
There’s no wrong way to feel as you engage with this prompt. That, to me, is the magic of poetry—the way it helps us (or at least helps me) to hold more than one thing and more than one feeling within my finite frame.
I look forward to reading your poems!
P.S. Do you know some lovely soul who writes poetry but has nowhere to share it? Send them our way. The comments threads here are consistently warm and welcoming. I take no credit for that, by the way. It’s all about the other awesome humans inhabiting that space!
KINDRED PONDERS
Ready or not, it's gonna happen.
I should be good to go by now,
but, yeah,
honestly,
I am nervous.
I can't stop wondering
what it's gonna be like.
on the other side.
It's supposed to be
everything I ever wanted.
i've heard stories about going thru this long tunnel
with a bright light at the end.
I just want to meet my mommy.
I just want to meet my Jesus.
to be held
with real arms.
and kissed.
and loved.
That's all I really want.
(inspired by a good friday youth group script, author unknown)
I wrote this one over a year ago, and it's in one of my very first posts here on Substack, so I thought I'd share it today:
I'm not afraid of dying;
I do it every day
I am afraid of leaving;
of business unfinished
knowledge unlearned
thoughts unuttered
words unread
moments unnoticed
love unexpressed
time unspent
life unlived