Tombstone by Tohm Bakelas

for Mark Anthony Pearce  

You share a photograph of your father’s 

tombstone, adorned with red and white 

carnations, the encompassing grass is 

neatly trimmed and cut low, the sun shines 

just fine. 

 

They say as the years continue on 

death becomes easier, like that’s 

supposed to take away the pain from 

it all, like a blanketed statement such 

as that could diminish the harsh truth 

of lost time, faded and fading memories. 

 

Ah Mark, I didn’t mean to make this 

about me, I just want you to know this 

photograph hit me hard, it was 

unexpected and honest. 

 

My family’s stone is three towns away 

in a catholic cemetery, my grandparents 

are there with a dead uncle I never met, 

he died three months and four days 

before my birth day, and some ashes 

of my mom are there, though she remains 

unmarked, as if she was never here. 

 

I think I’d like to be buried in my 

hometown, the very town I spent so 

much time trying to get away from, 

something about this place calls to 

me, still calling now.  

 

Anyway Mark, I didn’t set out to write 

this poem, I’d hardly call it that 

anyway. Funny thing about poets and 

poems, those who try rarely succeed, 

and those who stumble always find their 

way.  

Tohm Bakelas is a social worker in a psychiatric hospital. He was born in New Jersey, resides there, and will die there. His poems have appeared in numerous journals, zines, and online publications. He has published 13 chapbooks. He runs Between Shadows Press.