SIX MORE MILES TO THE GRAVEYARD

I

I’ll put on an old bearskin,
camp out in the trees,
write my songs on birchbark
harmonize with bees,
find myself a lady,
who likes to wear no clothes,
who’s really good at chopping wood,
and doesn’t mind mosquitoes

The salmon come to die,
but that's just what they do,
so my friend don’t worry
if we’ll make it through

mudslides down the canyon,
come back the way you came,
on the long bread-crumb trail
mixed with drops of rain

II
One worm looks at another
and sees beauty divine,
and wiggles and proposes,
to raise children in your eye.

The vulture finds its breakfast,
so virtuously prepared,
the flies sing in a choir
all counterpoint in air.

The boots go to the soldier,
whose feet they fit so well.
The toes go to the pathway,
the soul goes down to hell,

So wanderer take warning,
as pleasures turn to pain,
seek the grace while there’s still time,
mixed with drops of rain.

III

She’d be so happy now,
knowing how you weep,
and knowing how you wish,
and seeing how very deep—

your sorrow runs,
and though the days are long,
and shining suns are warm,
You remember that she’s gone—

In thoughts—in dreams.
Only in your deepest sleep,
when worlds disappear,
only then you are at peace.

But then you are like her,
in that state you can’t remain,
as dreams become remembrance
mixed with drops of rain.

IV

Dig up the ground,
with a golden spade.
Lower down
a silver chain.

The ground is soft,
the trees still bare,
rare snow is mixed
with drops of rain.

I cannot breathe,
I can scarcely speak,
I know no prayer,
for this special pain.

You’re gone at last,
in a blink of my eye,
the sky says goodbye
with drops of rain.

Notes: All these little things above are written to the tune or meter of “Six More Miles (to the Graveyard)” by Hank Williams. The first thing (I) is based on the story of a man who claimed to return to the woods without the amenities of civilization in the early twentieth century and wrote a book. Later a woman joined him, but she bailed out. The second (II) started as a thought on how beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but I am refuting the objection that a good Creator would not allow worms to live in the eyes of orphans. The third (III) is inspired by a poem of Catullus, that the man’s deceased wife would appreciate his love for her shown by his lamentation. The fourth (IV) is on the death of my dog, and it has echoes of a song called “Old Dog Blue”.