Pine Mountain Cemetery XXIII Fleeta
Pine Mountain Cemetery XXIII
Fleeta
Fleeta was her name, all five feet of her.
Mountain matriarch was a better story.
Leaders don’t have to be tall, just smart.
Right smart, a phrase that should have
Been carved onto her stone. For she
Was that and more besides. Music
Lived in those stubby fingers and under
Her shyest smile. Mothering came second
Nature whether man, child or her milk cow.
It would be a sight to know how many
Lonely, broken souls she carried under
Her ample wing, and good right arm.
They say beggers mark the place of kindness,
Hers must have been carved deep. Never
A hungry soul left her porch hungry, or cold
Or with an empty pocket. Not with gold, she
Had none and five kids to gobble up any extra.
But a pone of bread, or jerky or fatback to keep
One warm on the struggle to get on to where
Ever a hobo gets on in their lonely walk. They
Might even be known to hum a tune, heard last
While Fleeta was tending dinner or kids or husband.
Funny her man was named Pearl, and he was not.
She was the jewel polished by enough hard work
To smelt the hardest iron into shiny brass. All her
Clan listened to those few words she laid out
For them to think over, wise they knew, better
Than whatever foolishness they were tempted to.
Not because she had it easy was she right, more
Because the horseshoe is strong because of fire.
Five children have made a dynasty, worked
The world over, brought home treasures of life
That last. They climb the hill to shed their tears
For she who didn’t live to see how well molded
Each one is in her image. This place has lots
Of good laid here, and none better than Fleeta.
6 thoughts on "Pine Mountain Cemetery XXIII Fleeta"
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I just read this latest cemetery poem. When I see lines that break, as yours did, I read slower and look for reasons. I like the way you hid your rhymes from beginning to end. I enjoy poetry that keeps rhyme subtle, beginning line (man, clan, Than) internal (cold, gold), (stone, pone, one,none) (heard last, that last)–not to mention repetitions that stand out outstanding!
I agree with Rudy. As are all these Edgar Lee Masterpieces, this one shines. Just read it aloud on our porch on Dividing Ridge where old man Harold had the cemetery bulldozed one afternoon in 1977. I’ll occasionally run over a corner of a.headstone when Bush hogging and think of what’s buried here.
This is wonderful. ‘funny her man name was Pearl, he was not’…. love the whole poem. thanks.
I like the image of her children climbing up to the cemetery to visit her grave.
There isn’t one line, one word, that didn’t hold me, entice me to continue to the next. These cemetery poems are so rich. Bruce Florence will you write my story. I would be so lucky to be a creation of your mind, of your poetry.
The easy flow of these poems belie the careful use of rhyme, line breaks, and rhythm to create that flow. My favorite line; “She was the jewel polished by enough hard work/to smelt the hardest iron into shiny brass.” What a great description!