in pere’ lachaise

the remains of the long dead

and the recent dead

rest on four acres

of carefully tended

grounds…

in pere lachaise at midnite

the ghost of balzac

stumbles about

cousin bette on his lips

spewed out in gravely

brilliance

proust reminds them all

as he repeats his lines over

and over:

illness is the doctor to whom we pay most heed; to kindness, to knowledge, we make promise only; to pain we obey

ms. bernhardt appears

in lace and satins

a tattered old script

hangs  from elegant fingers

as she perfects each

 line from a last

stolen role…

morrison careens up and down

path after crazy path

whiskey bottle in one hand

notebooks of poetry in the other

as he prepares for his daily run

 from the fans who give him

little peace

they sneak over fences

eluding the nightime guards

his works still hang

in memory

from a ghostly thin arm

his poetry mumbled

like dark liquid

half  full as it drips

saturating into the ground below him..

wilde, toklas and gertrude

sip brandy from broken snifters

still speaking in dreams

 of   salon days

in gay paree

 planning the next guest list

for the shining stars

of art’s overflowing cups…

chopin’s magick plays

as background

concertos of ancient wonder

 emerge

from a clear night’s silence

while the waking dead

arise to hear tinkling keys of  ivory

welcoming the evening’s show…

in pere’ lachaise

 morning’s first light paints

parisian rose across

the quiet skies

as raphael, keeper of their memories

enters the gates

 they all gather about behind him

laughing. twittering

running bony fingers

through his gypsy hair

in his ears they whisper

tomes delivered regarding

 the seriousness of death

they follow as he begins his rounds

protecting these

the honored dead

from the foraging

of the damaged living

in daylight’s pere’ lachaise