Voices of the Dead

One of my favorite places to write is in old graveyards. This poem captures that.

 

Voices of the Dead

You have to sit in silence

with the voices of the dead

to hear them

really.

Black-eyed Abbie

resting eternal

next to Flora

(Wife of

(Daughter of

Do they even like each other?

Did they get along?

I can hear them bickering.

You have to visit in daylight,

willing to peel back moss,

in order to see faces

fo the dead:

Lost

among weeds

testament to 1859

(age five years

(seven days

I can see their freckles.

The sky is so blue

there is no word for it

and perhaps there shouldn't be,

here in this place

of the dead.

It can't be compared to the indigo

of their hearts.

For good or bad

(and violet)

WWII sacrifice.

I taste the blueberries on my tongue.

Horns and marching band drums

linger in the sound of the leaves

falling from trees

if you listen carefully.

World war hangovers,

dying,

like Ester did

(laid enternal as wife of).

I forgot to take my asprin this morning.

You have to sit real still

to hear the voices of the dead

Abbie A.

1823.

I'm listening!

(Are you ignoring me?)

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

I also enjoy old graveyards. Perhaps "enjoy" is not the right word, but I do find them very interesting. While there, my mind works in similar ways as yours; talking to the residents, asking them questions, etc. Very good writing, Erin.