A big, fancy non-profit bought a cemetery. They did so to make sure that their manicured lawns were not associated with a rotting burial place that so many cemeteries become over the years.

This cemetery was the final resting place of many local historical figures. There was the writer. His plot had a wrought iron fence around it. There were the conductors of The Underground Railroad. Their plots were right next to the road waiting for the next person in need of help.

The problem with the big, fancy non-profit was that they over promised on how they would protect the cemetery. They, in the interest of tax free land protection, made mention that they would repair damaged headstones, that they would keep the grounds clean as if they were behind the stone walls and high admission prices of the foundation, and that the cemetery would be brought to the forefront of historical discussions about those who found their final resting place now stuck between DuPont’s highway vision and a fire station.

The years passed and more headstones began to fall. The ground began to sink. The prices next door continued to grow and the apathy of what were promises made on the hopes of the living for their dead were ignored.

Then, something happened. There was a blight that began hitting the trees within the hallowed grounds of the manicured nature center of the big, fancy non-profit. The water that spewed from the gaudy fountains began to trickle. Something was happening to all that unnatural development and it was eating into the profits of the organization dedicated to keeping itself going.

No one could understand what was happening. A fear began to seep into the administrators of the non-profit money making organization and the fear became desperation after the pandemic. In the hopes of getting some guidance, a soothsayer came to the grounds and offered some advice.

“Respect the dead. They deserve your integrity. Help them.”

The next day, crews were sent to the cemetery. They cleaned up the grounds and got rid of the weeds that were taking over. Leaning headstones were reset. Those that had aged to a point where the names could not be read were cleaned and the names cut back into the stone. Promises were being kept.

Strangely, the infestations and sludge like water on the other side of the street began to clear up. The grounds were being restored to their previous profit making level. The big, fancy non-profit would be able to survive and the souls of the those laid to rest across the street would be able live the way their ansestors had hoped they would.

Maturity is a good thing, I guess,
As I am sitting on a poem,
That absolutely goes after a double standard,
A liar,
And one I wish would get exposed
For being nothing more than ambitious.
The poem talks about stuff that people do
When their idea of how important they are
Let’s them make morally questionable decisions,
But I could never put anything like that out there.
I’m maturing. I guess.
It probably doesn’t help that I’m writing under the influence
Of Lou Reed’s New York, every song a prosecution of something.
Man, I wish I could be that mature.

 

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Family focus?
Liar, liar, tongue on fire
Put up and shut up
Conjoin your money and mouth
Put families up here.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo Credit: By Martin Dürrschnabel, de:Benutzer:Martin-D1, user:Martin-D [CC BY-SA 2.5 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.5)%5D, from Wikimedia Commons

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Word was out
The winds of change were blowing
How could such short sightedness
Be happening in a government
Striving for absolute transparency

Singleton had many dealings
Some he reported, others he did not
The one he didn’t
Probably would have blown away
Had he not conflicted himself with advocacy

Word got out
Of the high level interest conflicts
And a great gust blew Singleton
Right out of office
With only a terse letter of resignation

The thing about these guys
Is the corruption of their souls
Where the deal or office
Scatters their values
Like trash on a windy day

They lose themselves in power
Addicts of a different sort
Bereft of humility’s touch
Or senses of integrity.
Thus, comes those not so gentle breezes of change.

 

Photo Credit: wikimedia.org (Public Domain)

Loud advocacy makes me weary
Especially when it rails against
The strengths of our younger generation.

They know this technology.
They know cut and paste.
Did they know…

Their parents might have
Head answers to a quiz beforehand?
Maybe even their teachers, too?

Who has not copied?
Who has not sneaked a peak?
Who has not slipped with academic integrity?

Maybe the loudest, I suspect.
Incarceration and banishment don’t work.
Maybe a quieter approach is better.

The honesty gene is an elusive recluse
For some
That live in cocoons of
Anonymity
Deny-ability
Or plain old deceit
How do these serpents
Live with themselves
Slithering over
Respect
Integrity
And good old decency
In an effort
To keep mud on everyone else

The faults we all carry
Deserve to be owned by us

My pockets are barely deep enough
For mine
But they are mine
Worn boldly
With full accountability
On my part
Unfettered by
Chicken confidence
Or
Poultry like confidants
(Both which sound like clucking to me)