Cemetery Flowers

John Griffin

As I was passing by a church

Upon a rainy day,

A sudden urge came over me

My last respects to pay

And so, devoid of conscious thought

I strode amongst the tombs

And gravestones marked with long

Forgotten names in faded runes.

Then, sitting on a sepulchre,

I spied a motley fool

With eyes agape and patchwork cape

And wide mouth dripping drool.

I asked the fool “What will we be

When all of us are dead?”

He grinned, and, if you will allow

I’ll tell you what he said.

“You walk this earth but briefly and

Soon fade away you must

Your last breath shall escape your lungs

Your bones shall turn to dust.

Yet words that once were spoken

Echo on beyond the end

And blossom out as flowers which

I’ll tell you now, my friend.

The daffodils are witches’ souls

Entombed beneath the earth

Which once, in life, did laugh and sing

And revel in their mirth.

But now, deceased, in Hades’

Icy fetters they are caught

With all their charms and all their

Divinations brought to naught.

In life, they made themselves like gods

They worshipped nothing more

They turned their eyes unto their hearts

They whispered secret lore

And yet, no less they met their fate

No reprieve could be found

In death they rest as shriveled bulbs

Entombed beneath the ground.

But once a year they can emerge

And gaze upon the sky

To weep a nectar teardrop for

The heaven they passed by.

The roses: souls of lovers who

Could hardly spend a night

Outside each others’ warm embrace

Beneath the cold moonlight.

They granted blessings only to

The ones who snared their hearts

They could not bear to be alone

They could not be apart.

Now tangled vines and misread signs

Become their florid fate

No matter how the roses grow

They cannot separate.

Thus buried-deep resentments break

Out of affection’s grip

And armor them with poison thorns

Which former lovers prick.”

A surge of fear came over me

The chilling touch of dread

With hesitating tone of voice,

I timorously said

“Their souls are flowers when they die

I understand that fine

But answer me, O wicked fool

What of the soul that’s mine?

Am I a narcissistic witch

Or Eros-cheated rose?

Or am I destined for another

Fate, do you suppose?”

The fool, he grinned with ivory teeth

And eyes that sparkled brown

But in his feigned expression

No sympathy was found.

“Your soul, my friend, is doomed to end

Up in a cherry tree

Such as a porcelain painter might

Depict on pottery.

It blossoms bright in springtime light

With petals pink and white

And passers-by may smile as

They gaze upon the sight

But in a month, the flowers die

And flutter to the ground

The twisted husks, the rotting dust

Malodorous and brown.

A fate like this awaits you and

The others of your kin

Who mangle words and spatter paint

And act and dance and sing.

The Muses offer prizes which

Transcend your wildest dreams

But whore themselves out to the next

Who falls into their schemes.

Your hero Homer never saw

The fame that he would reap

Euripides screamed out his last

As Thracian puppy’s meat

A coughing fit took Molière

Who would not stop his show

And laughing Ovid cried himself

To death in Pontic snow.

The same will come to you, my friend

I surely prophecy

Calliope deserts you soon

I cannot tell a lie.”

With this, the fool deserted me

To fog and fading light

And I trode on the wretched song

Into the gloomy night.