Digging Lindbergh’s Grave
In Kipahulu on the wet side of Maui,
where waterfalls and streams
run down to the sea,
I dig the grave of Charles Lindbergh.
In the cemetery at Palapala Ho’Omau,
the church made of limestone coral,
I put the iron o’o to rock and soil
exploring the earth, not the clouds.
All day I hear planes overhead,
modified air-mail mono-planes
like the spirit of St Louis
closeby in the java plum tree.
As the tomb gets deeper,
a sadness grows
for a young one’s death and
for misunderstandings about the big war.
This man and his wife
came to our corner for peace
and tranquility, for the silence
of ocean waves and the trills of rain.
Here they could forget
and locals could accept.
The large stone waiting
there on the ground
to cover my work and my friend
reads, “…I take the wings of the morning
and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea.”
Frank Babcock lives and writes in Corvallis, Oregon, and is a retired middle school teacher and owner of Marys Peak Bamboo, a bamboo nursery. He writes poetry to share the sometimes strange thoughts and insights that rattle around in his head. He started with an interest in the beatnik poets, Ferlinghetti and Ginsberg, as well as Leonard Cohen many years ago. He has a long way to go and much to write before he sleeps.
