I have always found old graveyards
to be refuges of quiet peace
sancturaries for meditation
tangible connections to history
and the continuation of life
I have discovered and explored
many such cities of the dead
but one grave will never be forgotten
It was an old cemetery beside
a wall which was all that remained
of the ruins of a field stone church
situated on a lonesome back road
between Richmond and Williamsburg
Grown over with weeds and flowers
probably planted two centuries ago
Most of the gravestones leaning
or toppled, covered with thick moss
One gravestone of exquisite beauty
An angel carved on top with bent head
cradling in her arms two infant angels
The epitaph still alive as when written
Reading like a thoughtful biography
eulogizing a woman of eternal worth
and at the bottom, in smaller carving
a poignant postscript....
“Here Sleeps _____________
Wife, Mother, Daughter, Sister
Beloved, Charitable Friend To Many
Born December 20th 1794
Died In Childbirth, May 16th 1824
She Has Fought A Good Fight
She Has Kept The Faith
She Has Borne Her Burdens Well
And Will Endure Them No Longer
Abiding Face To Face With Our Lord
Sealed ’Til The Final Resurrection
Destined For A Crown Of Glory
She Weeps No More For Her Children
Who Rest In Peace, Here In Her Arms
Infant Son Born And Died May 16th 1824
Infant Daughter Born And Died May 16th 1824
kind of sad, but with your touch much better, there is this church near my job, It is Immanual Luthran I think, at times I stop and read the old head stones and wonder about my own hundreds of years from now, hugs
Belle, there is an emotional outreach from the beyond that is profound in your words. I too have visited such a site where my great-great grandfather lies mingled with the dust of eternity. His head stone eroded over time, broken by someone harboring no respect for those now lost to the ages. A small family graveyard, the farm property owned by non-family members for decades. I can commune there in solace. As a frequent traveler between Richmond and Williamsburg this place you found interests me. Your scope and the tenderness of your expression for them, the family and the hallowed place are in and of themselves a living epitaph. Peace,love and joy to you my dear friend. Jon Michael
Belle, I cannot tell you the feelings this poem has induced within my heart..So profound and tender you have captured a moment of restoration of a most remarkable death. I am captivated by your words that resonate deeply within..Lovely work, my dear friend Belle...
Quite a powerful piece, La Belle. I've often wandered old cemeteries myself reading old inscriptions and pondering the lives and deaths of those who came before.
SO MANY THINGS RUN THROUGH MY MIND...THEY WOULD HAVE PROBABLY LIVED HAD IT BEEN IN THIS DAY AND TIME BUT IT WAS NOT GOD'S WILL THUS, HAVING FOUGHT A GOOD FIGHT, SHE AND HER BABIES SURELY ARE DESTINED TO SEE OUR BLESSED REDEEMER...WAKING TO THE FINAL TRUMP AS IF SHE HAD JUST CLOSED HER EYES...CRYING NO MORE BUT REJOICING, SEEING THOSE SHE COUNTED LOST, ALIVE. THIS WORK, INCLUDING THE PRESENTATION IS 'TERRIBLY EXQUISITE'...KUDOS TO YOU AND GLORY TO THE WONDERFUL, MATCHLESS, INSPIRER. THANK YOU LABELLE, LOVE AND BLESSINGS,
JOYCE * HIS INSPIRATIONS
LaBelle,
Profoundly moving writing and all the moreso because you don't openly weep or lament or preach, you allow the description of the setting to speak and the 'bare facts' of the passing in childbirth of a 30-year-old woman bringing twins into the world.
You honour the sacrifice of a true heroine.
Oftentimes I go to St Nics, built in 974 and some of the engraving tell more than any history book will. In fact I write a lot of my stories and poetry there.
Gods Golden Acre teaches us much. Yet like you, I love the peace there and thoughts go through ones head of Christmas' of 1000 years ago, what the faithful were like, how they got there, was it snowing, how many sat under the same yew trees that I'm told are 4000 years old.
So many died young as in your poem, many from birth or war and in family graves. The oldest I can read is 1100 AD.
Phew, I'm not alone where no-one moans.
So many such heartaches. Brill poetry Ole Red xx
We seem to be on the same page tonight, Darlin. This is an exquisite pondering and moving sentimental journey/journal. I love the tiny country graveyard where my mother, father and unknown sibling brother, aged just three days, are laid together to rest - though in life their union was severely fractured. I can't explain it, but all is put to rights where their dust mingles and their souls are healed to be at peace one with another. Love the tenderness in this, xx
This is so brilliantly subtle, so outlined in magic, you have brought the lost back, the melancholy of their time being stolen, the agony!
Blessings,
Christine
You've brought it back to life, Belle...truly a monumental piece carved from your heart in remembrance of not only the deceased, but the stone carver who inscribed The Epitaph from oral familial instruction...marvelous antiquity, memorialized and carefully chiseled poetry...be well.
Sepsis knocked her down and out. Faith, hope, and gave her the strength to get back on her feet. I am a Runner She fought the river of death They said she'd never run again
She proved them wrong...
TRUE STORY. Bella survived an abusive powerbroker father with organized crime ties, a drug-addicted mother and a physically/sexually abusive brother. Shocking & inspirational. When she couldn't cry, she tattooed a crying angel to cry for her.
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Peace, love and light,
Amber
JOYCE * HIS INSPIRATIONS
Profoundly moving writing and all the moreso because you don't openly weep or lament or preach, you allow the description of the setting to speak and the 'bare facts' of the passing in childbirth of a 30-year-old woman bringing twins into the world.
You honour the sacrifice of a true heroine.
John
Oftentimes I go to St Nics, built in 974 and some of the engraving tell more than any history book will. In fact I write a lot of my stories and poetry there.
Gods Golden Acre teaches us much. Yet like you, I love the peace there and thoughts go through ones head of Christmas' of 1000 years ago, what the faithful were like, how they got there, was it snowing, how many sat under the same yew trees that I'm told are 4000 years old.
So many died young as in your poem, many from birth or war and in family graves. The oldest I can read is 1100 AD.
Phew, I'm not alone where no-one moans.
So many such heartaches. Brill poetry Ole Red xx
Blessings,
Christine
Regis
Love,
Sage