Raising the Dead
They died long before you were born
and there is little here to tell you more
than a name and a pair of dates,
There are no ghosts here.
You would have seen them
in the hours where you sit
and listen to the wind.
What did they do?
What did they create?
Who did they love?
There is a story in each stone
and you will never know them.
Still you sit, listening for echoes.
Now and again, you swear you hear music,
the tinkling of temple bells,
or an Irish jig. Your imagination, no doubt,
but the truth is you often prefer
to the truth of nothingness.
It was your imagination after all
that raised you from the dead so long ago,
and your imagination that opened the door
to a love real life never provided.
And that is why you come here
with your pad of paper and your pen,
waiting for the dead to rise, if no where else,
in your mind.
About this poem.
- I love old graveyards.
- Creativity was a big part of my recovery from the darkest times in my life.
- This poem came from the picture first, not from any overwhelming emotion currently in my life. I do that a lot when I am feeling flat, kind of a crowbar to help me dig into my emotions.
- The picture was taken in nearby Hebron, NY, just over the state line from my house.