What is Dying ?

This is not written out of some morbid fascination, but as a dedication to a dear friend, who may find some comfort within.

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My Dad

There appeared to be hands comforting the crucifix statue

7th of November, the day before my birthday, I opened a parcel from my parents, it contained a little statuette of the 'Goddess of Love' and a note , wishing me a Happy Birthday and telling me that my father had chosen it and my mother had had no say. I laughed to myself, and put off phoning caus he would only tell me off for ringing during the day, "too expensive, ring in the evening"

After lunch , about 1 pm, I received a phone call , telling me that my Dad had died. I wished I had phoned, but things happen for a reason, maybe if I had I would have .... oh I dont know.

We travelled to Ireland to be with my mother and to pay last respects at his funeral. Me being me , I wanted to see before hand where he was going to be interred, and so walked to the cemetery. Upon entering , I looked at the crusifix statue and the Yew trees, and there, I saw that the trees had grown to resemble hands comforting the cross and all the other souls within the cemetery.

I went back to get my drawing pad and pencils , and drew .

Returning, to the cemetery, on a number of occassions , I have never seen those hands again, my drawing has circulated the village, and I have been told that many people have it framed upon their walls.

No Regrets

Maybe, life is too short, but personally I think that if we live it too the full and leave this world a happier place , life is complete.

Following the funeral , I wrote a poem, not too long, just six lines and one stanza -

No Tears have I shed

For my Dad, now dead

No regrets do I have

For the lives we have led

He lives within me, young Mark too

We are always together, as the Morning Dew.

Perhaps this may seem a little harsh, it was written 3 weeks after he had died, and I really couldnt cry.

My Grandfather, Frank

My Grandfather Frank , he joined the rank
at the age of 82
And here he was , reminding me
That all is well and fine
I cried and tried to hold him close
"Not to be" he said and chose
to run, he ran, I ran
Up the stairs he ran so fast
I could not catch him
He turned and waved, a smile upon his face
I smiled , I waved , I cried.

I had this dream, not long after he died, it comforted me, I think about him every day.

Do not stand at my grave and weep

This poem was written by an unknown author. It was found in an envelope left by a soldier, killed in 1989. The poem was read aloud by his father on Remembrance Sunday, 1995, and evoked a huge and warm response -

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 sunlight 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 circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there;
I did not die.

setting sail

on the horizon

entering port

What is Dying ?

My mother received a well wisher card, not long after my father passed, she had the words photo copied and sent me a copy, I found it to be a beautiful anology and one that I will always recall.

As my grandfather lived by the sea and my father was a lover of the sea, it is to me just perfect ;