By J.J. Tindall
Houses of the Holy
It is difficult to get further outside of time
Than on a bike ride through a large, old cemetery.
My “local” is Forest Home in Forest Park
(Perhaps it is like the British pub system,
One has a “local”),
Where one can always find the rain.
Rain sings the best rain songs!
I know the Haymarket Memorial is here
(the THUNDER of throttled silence!),
But I want to get lost, man, I want to
Trust the green maze, redolent of old rain.
I stick my nose deep into the digital present
All too often anymore, looking for love, no doubt,
But this is a perfect day, and I’m traveling time.
Here, the idea of rain comes down on a sunny day,
This idea is a gently cleansing rain, quiet, subdued yet determined.
God: the love and marriages! Old families with plots
To themselves, odd individuals scrunched in between.
I am struck by this recent trend of photographs
On the gravestones. Too much in time, I am thinking.
The names seem Bohemian, or Eastern European,
But this is an old Jewish cemetery. Are there new ones?
At one intersection is a large, neo-classical gazebo,
Not a memorial to any individual, but simply
A house of the holy. Take a load off, listen to the
Lawnmowers
Outside of time, in the shadow of the looming rain.
Suddenly there is an entire section inordinately festooned:
Pinwheels, balloons, fresh flowers, flags, stuffed animals.
There’s a reason, practical, sensible, even obvious
But I don’t want to know, I prefer
The mystery of it.
I want to be outside of time today, I want to be invisible.
Like when you’re glad when it rains, when you get to be home.
You get to be home, and the momentum of the present
Is forced to a goddam halt for once.
Everybody has to stop and listen whether they like it or not,
Like everybody ends up outside of time forever whether
They like it or not.
Everybody will have Monday off because of the Black Angel
Of Haymarket. Nobody will want to remember, I get it, I’m
In on the forgetting.
I didn’t mean for this to happen so close to Labor Day
But I have to work that day so today I stole a Time Machine
And you can’t catch me!
The rain stopped, the humidity broke, the clouds assented.
The rain paused, I should say, in its eternal folk melody.
It permeates the grass, the marble, the heavenward columns,
The photographs, the pinwheels and the teddy bears
As it has and will for eons.
You want a rain song you
Listen very carefully to
The rain.
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J.J. Tindall is the Beachwood’s poet-in-residence. He welcomes your comments. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.
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More Tindall:
* Chicagoetry: The Book
* Ready To Rock: The Music
* Kindled Tindall: The Novel
* The Viral Video: The Match Game Dance
Posted on September 1, 2016