Woodlawn Cemetery

by Jason Youngclaus

​

The grave of Sir Miles Davis
rests peeringly against a cool backdrop
of sprung foliage
on a crisp Sunday morning
in Woodlawn Cemetery.
In the distance, deep within the
harmonizing foreground
an owl carved convincingly from bright maple
stands defiantly, invitingly.
It is the 4th of November 2018 and
at times it looks like our democracy itself is
destined for an inground tomb ---
Such as the kind you’ll find dug snugly
into the corner of a ridge here,
whereby an eternal nest
quotes Hyperion, achingly
and the entire scene evokes a
dreary dreamscape where ghosts ride wild horses
on a war-torn battlefield green.

An imposing array of Milestones ---
Lot by lot of dry bones seeking deliverance,
In a silent way.
The quiet morning gets quieter and
quieter the deeper you walk,
the longer you think. Meanwhile,
the bright and buoyant colors incubate themselves
at the forefront of the foggy sky.
To capture it is impossible,
but to walk up one of the many
varied, winding gateways and propitiously stumble
into the resting place of Elizabeth Cady Stanton
on the eve of midterm elections
hearkens back to a psychology professors quote
from an Atlantic magazine article on coincidences:
“Random is not enough of an explanation for me,” he said...
Somehow now intuitions and insights
climb their postured ascent
up from these tired feet screaming
for the summer sun, blown
together as one with the Unus Mundus,
the yellow Autumn Leaves shriek
into one thoughtless moment of swirling chaos…

And this is all truly an indefinable joy ---
Not least when you’ve spent
the better part of your morning jaunt
hoping to dig up some bleak enlightenment
to counterbalance what can otherwise only
be viewed as a lonely unmarked grave is ---
as it bends its neck further and further
askew along a semi-toppled landscape
of grey sky and fervent rainclouds.

Across the street, across the
stylish green street sign reading
Summit/Heliotrope Ave ---
Across a horizontal,
military-like chain of graves,
Across a gorge
of debris laden cement ---
A tan grey, bricked building emitting
the smell of fresh coriander
protrudes apathetically on the horizon.
Hardworking men and women who deserve
the best our mortal coil has to offer ---
abide this scenery every morning
preparing breakfast for their sleeping children
against the fertile foreground
of its melancholic aide-mémoire.
Across this chasm of the living and the dead:
You can hear a heartbeat,
a blue note,
a vibrato.