Huron Cemetery Poems (I)

April 13th, 2018

RON-TON-DEE
OR WARPOLE
1775-1843

The sun is out,
though western clouds
threaten death from above.
It is the stormy season.

I am listening
to the wind and M83
and eating lunch and thinking
of the dead supporting me.

Two robins eye my salad,
chirp, “The dead support us all!”
The wind howls like life,
blowing everything away.

Still those gathering birds,
with all their hollow bones,
keep moving toward me,
hungry look in their eyes.

They don’t mind the wind.
They don’t fight the clouds.
They understand what’s coming.
It is the stormy season.

https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/17266134/ron-ton-dee-(or_warpole)

Huron Cemetery Poems (I)

The End of Winter Sings Such a Captivating Song

we left the children outside

                                                            overnight

the snowflakes covered them

we called their names at dawn

using our strictest voices

our threats no longer mattered

                                                            and

around high noon we knew regret

The End of Winter Sings Such a Captivating Song

The Good Life Smells Just Like Gobstoppers

On the ground before you
sits a box sealed tight.
The box represents your mind.

Don’t get the wrong idea
about this metaphor. This is
not about thinking outside the box.

At least, not in the common
sense of that beleaguered phrase.
Instead, simply watch the box.

That action proves noteworthy for
you can watch the box from outside the box,
which forces you to ask,

“Who is it that’s watching my mind?”

My daughter enters the room
bearing candy and a smile.

The last time I wrote of her
she was seven. Now she’s ten.

The multi-colored candy spills
from its box like rainbow hailstones.

She reads the words above
and she tells me not to worry.

Then she leaves the room
to go play The Sims downstairs.

The Good Life Smells Just Like Gobstoppers

One Way to Make the Family Fall Apart

Even with the beige blinds drawn,
          I can still peek in to see you.
          Yes, through those tiny little holes,
          I can watch you change your skin.

And I know you expect privacy.
         (That’s why you closed the blinds.)
          But those itty bitty holes
          call like a million children’s screams.

Besides, what would you have me do?
          Let the little children suffer?
          Let you live with the illusion
          that when you change, you change alone?

One Way to Make the Family Fall Apart