"O', pen" - A poet bee

 
 
 
 
 
Authors Ridge in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery [Concord, Massachusetts]shelters the graves of Louisa May Alcott, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Henry David Thoreau, and more famous authors.


On grave shrines
fellow pilgrims
placed flowers.
pennies, pens,
'n poems scratched
on pebbles.
Emerson, Thoreau,
Alcott, even Salem's
grumpy Ha'thorne,
so honored,
remembered.

Under blue sky,
Nature transcends.
Still.
Tranquil.
Her canopy,
white, red and scarlet oaks,
red and sugar maples,
white pines,
hemlocks,
towers above,
cloaks a carpet
of needles, acorns,
dappled, reticulate
shade.
Below the
authors' ridge,
beavers,
in skins untrapped,
have returned,
flooded land.
Their dead trees,
independent,
stand tall.
No votive candles
need burn
in the clean
October air,
for glory be t'all.

I walk with friend,
no saint, Peter,
Don Pedro
de los Pajaros
Viejos.
We talk.
Here's Henry,
Louisa, Nathaniel.
Where's Waldo?
We laugh.

No quarters found
for Peter to steal,
so a pilfered pen
must do.
Neither poet
nor pilgrim giver
will know
or care.
We laugh again.

My friend,
unabashed
grave robber
he now be,
sees me leave
a shiny copper
on Emerson's
headstone.
He wonders why.
A small tribute
to the poet's life?
Or to inspire more
lines in mine?
Surely,
the purloined pen
is under God's radar,
so it's not payment
for a thief's atonement!

Sleepy Hollow,
sleep some more.
Albeit corporal rest
is your endless fate,
your ideas will live on
way beyond this date.
Ours to read,
ponder,
build upon.

We pay homage here,
inspired by your
aughtful words,
not deeds of
violent sacrifice,
as on Concord's
Old Bridge near,
two centuries ago.

So y'all should
steel a pen,
not a sword.
Spend its power
to better us all.

Think! Write!

And then
once more
we'll laugh
together,
maybe even
be expiated.
  

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