is this competition worthy? I havent even looked at scan. Does that matter these days?
Holidays in the cemetery
A crow alerts a preying fox.
Birdsong jangles the quiet.
Each year lusty Spring comes
to every town's quietest place
in all her water-color hues
careless of mourners who might
resent her giddy indifference
towards their lingering grief .
Every last Monday in the month of May
When death is verdant in the place of graves
The US celebrates Memorial Day
In the 1960's,we rose early
Car trunks were packed with
peonies in dripping coffee cans
blue plastic roses, wheat crosses
for those Irish immigrants to Kansas
whose names mustn't be forgotten
Childishly I saw ghosts welcoming us
seated on their tombstones,
silent bony hands clapping
gleefully drumming their heels
on dry and dusty tombstones
as they whispered each to each
"their curls have turned white."
"the new baby has my eyes"
Families and neighbors gossiped
the fates of those lying underground
of diptheria, snakebite, feeble old age.
They lounged on tidily trimmed plots
where now the storytellers are interred.
Once when told to water thirsty blooms
I drank coldly, deeply from the iron tap
Aghast, my dear grandma scolded me,
" THINK, child, there are coffins below!"
Then under trees planted by the long dead
On picnic tables billowing with gingham
out came green and pink cake tins
each one with a pie entombed on top
platters of crisp or sticky fried chicken
as many recipes as there were old women
still able to stand in front of a hot stove
Because of those remembering days
I never forgot the story whispered
of a 2nd cousin, a hero of WW 2,
convicted of 1st degree murder
because when a terrified truck driver
trappedin the jack-knifed cab of a semi
begged, “Shoot me! Don't let me burn.”
Jack obeyed with his hunting rifle.
In court the former soldier just said,
"In war, you'd have given me a medal."
So when I see vases of flowers
leaned against engraved stone
I think of fire and death.
And I wonder where will I finally lie
And who will visit or remember me?
Holidays in the cemetery
A crow alerts a preying fox.
Birdsong jangles the quiet.
Each year lusty Spring comes
to every town's quietest place
in all her water-color hues
careless of mourners who might
resent her giddy indifference
towards their lingering grief .
Every last Monday in the month of May
When death is verdant in the place of graves
The US celebrates Memorial Day
In the 1960's,we rose early
Car trunks were packed with
peonies in dripping coffee cans
blue plastic roses, wheat crosses
for those Irish immigrants to Kansas
whose names mustn't be forgotten
Childishly I saw ghosts welcoming us
seated on their tombstones,
silent bony hands clapping
gleefully drumming their heels
on dry and dusty tombstones
as they whispered each to each
"their curls have turned white."
"the new baby has my eyes"
Families and neighbors gossiped
the fates of those lying underground
of diptheria, snakebite, feeble old age.
They lounged on tidily trimmed plots
where now the storytellers are interred.
Once when told to water thirsty blooms
I drank coldly, deeply from the iron tap
Aghast, my dear grandma scolded me,
" THINK, child, there are coffins below!"
Then under trees planted by the long dead
On picnic tables billowing with gingham
out came green and pink cake tins
each one with a pie entombed on top
platters of crisp or sticky fried chicken
as many recipes as there were old women
still able to stand in front of a hot stove
Because of those remembering days
I never forgot the story whispered
of a 2nd cousin, a hero of WW 2,
convicted of 1st degree murder
because when a terrified truck driver
trappedin the jack-knifed cab of a semi
begged, “Shoot me! Don't let me burn.”
Jack obeyed with his hunting rifle.
In court the former soldier just said,
"In war, you'd have given me a medal."
So when I see vases of flowers
leaned against engraved stone
I think of fire and death.
And I wonder where will I finally lie
And who will visit or remember me?
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Love the descriptions and agree with all the comments here too. 
