So often my poems are for family or friends who have died. Is this my task--to memorialize? This one is for a dear friend from Pinebrook days and was written after studying the myths of Celtic adventure/spiritual journeys.
There is never a good death, though some
may make a crossing smooth.
As paper burns, the body shrivels: life leaves.
Thousands die every day.
Imagine the sound of compounded mourning.
Yet blessed the one who flies
on drafts of tears, prayer-borne,
trusted into Love's center,
who leaves behind a wake of laughter
and faith-arrows aimed straight.
Death's sting is in the cup
we do not fill with tea.
Hush now. We will be soothed
with words of glory land, and we will
strike our oars like the brave men of Bran,
Brendan and Maeldune
and sail forth on life's sea to find
our companion, all shining,
waiting for us on the distant shore.
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