Singing in Graveyards

It is quiet here.
Wind perhaps.
A few birds sing.

But visitors are few.
The history is too old,
too long past,

and far too quiet
to draw a crowd.
It is just you and the ghosts.

You sit in the shade,
and remember battles, remember
the building of walls

to protect your heart.
And you remember the fear –
oh, the fear

that held you like a prisoner,
deep underground, chained,
and worse, invisible.

The scars are still there
for those who pause and look,
tender places that have healed,

beauty marks, celebrations
of survival, and more,
of a rising from the grave,

a rebirth of love, of hope,
a reclaiming of power that laughs,
and dances, and sings joyfully

in the grave yard,
knowing the secret,
that nothing lasts forever,

unless you allow it.

 

About this poem

The picture was taken in a graveyard in Oswego, NY that dates back to the French and Indian wars. The idea for the poem began there, as a paean to those who suffer alone and invisible. But as so often seems to happen to me, even in the dark thoughts, something in me refuses to stay in the dark, but fights for the light.

Tom