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Help...

I need a poem to read at my father's memorial service this weekend. Nothing seems right...or even close to right. If you have any suggestions, please contact me.

Much thanks...me

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( 7 comments — Leave a comment )
yezida
Nov. 4th, 2009 12:20 am (UTC)
The poem you wrote feels mighty appropriate to me. It is gorgeous.


"Death" by Khalil Gibran is lovely - though may not exactly reflect your theology.


Love to you.
morrigandaughtr
Nov. 4th, 2009 02:03 am (UTC)
I agree about the poem you wrote. ::hugs::

xo
ravenedgewalker
Nov. 4th, 2009 02:57 am (UTC)
I agree with Thorn and Crow.

For my Gran's funeral I read one of her favorite poems (sea fever) which was more appropriate than I realised when I agreed to read it.
ckirisi
Nov. 4th, 2009 03:58 am (UTC)
I think the poem that you wrote is lovely..

Holding you in love an light.
soulspirals
Nov. 4th, 2009 12:28 pm (UTC)
I'll add my voice to the fray in support of your own beautiful work.
sissyhips
Nov. 4th, 2009 02:55 pm (UTC)
Hello. It seems we are going through something very similar.

My teacher and mentor, and remarkable woman named Annie, asked for this to be read at her funeral:

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.

-- Mary E. Frye

firedancer_ny
Nov. 4th, 2009 03:30 pm (UTC)
I also agree about your own beautiful poetry. What can be more "right" than what comes from your own precious heart?

I also adore Mary Oliver's poetry, and was asked to read this one once for a memorial service:

In Blackwater Woods
By Mary Oliver

Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars

of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,

the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders

of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is

nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned

in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side

is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
( 7 comments — Leave a comment )

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