He Is Dead
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let airplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought he would be here for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
__________
W. H. Auden
Do not stand at my grave and weep
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
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 glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you wake in the morning 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 weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
(Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there, I did not die!
Mary Frye (1932)
Don't Think I Do Not Grieve
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Don't think I do not feel;
because you see no tears.
A river rages deep inside
of grief, and loss, and fears.
Just because I do not cry now,
don't think my heart's not broken.
I keep inside the misery
of words not to be spoken.
Sometimes I smile, or crack a joke,
so you won't see the pain;
or notice how my hands will shake,
or how I've gone insane.
Each time I chance to think of him,
my heart is ripped asunder.
The loss I feel is mine alone.
you will not see my thunder.
_______________________
By Allison Chambers Coxsey
Picture Prints
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
I choose the softest white towel from the cupboard and
start the faucet running. Just a tiny dab of liquid soap is
enough. When the water is hot I wet the edge of the terry
cloth, rub to form suds, and then ring the water out. With
the warm, moist bundle, I gently wash the glass back and
forth and the many fingerprints start to smear. I'm careful
to slowly clean every streak. I wipe until I can see my
reflection and I notice there's a tear on my cheek. It pauses
for a moment before it's decent. Looking back at me, your
expression is energetic and unguarded, as though you're
alive behind the smooth barrier. I search your eyes, trying
to see into your mind, but the real windows into your soul
closed months ago. I kiss my fingers and place them on the
glass, leaving a fresh print. I know you don't like being
kissed on the lips, you're too old for that you said, so my
fingers rest on your dimple. "Mama loves you, sweetie.
Goodnight." Before going to bed, I walk past your empty
room and look for the glow of your candle. Tomorrow I'll be
one day closer to meeting you in death.
_______________________________
By Sara DeLeon (former POS member)
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let airplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought he would be here for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
__________
W. H. Auden
Do not stand at my grave and weep
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
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 glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you wake in the morning 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 weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
(Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there, I did not die!
Mary Frye (1932)
Don't Think I Do Not Grieve
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Don't think I do not feel;
because you see no tears.
A river rages deep inside
of grief, and loss, and fears.
Just because I do not cry now,
don't think my heart's not broken.
I keep inside the misery
of words not to be spoken.
Sometimes I smile, or crack a joke,
so you won't see the pain;
or notice how my hands will shake,
or how I've gone insane.
Each time I chance to think of him,
my heart is ripped asunder.
The loss I feel is mine alone.
you will not see my thunder.
_______________________
By Allison Chambers Coxsey
Picture Prints
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
I choose the softest white towel from the cupboard and
start the faucet running. Just a tiny dab of liquid soap is
enough. When the water is hot I wet the edge of the terry
cloth, rub to form suds, and then ring the water out. With
the warm, moist bundle, I gently wash the glass back and
forth and the many fingerprints start to smear. I'm careful
to slowly clean every streak. I wipe until I can see my
reflection and I notice there's a tear on my cheek. It pauses
for a moment before it's decent. Looking back at me, your
expression is energetic and unguarded, as though you're
alive behind the smooth barrier. I search your eyes, trying
to see into your mind, but the real windows into your soul
closed months ago. I kiss my fingers and place them on the
glass, leaving a fresh print. I know you don't like being
kissed on the lips, you're too old for that you said, so my
fingers rest on your dimple. "Mama loves you, sweetie.
Goodnight." Before going to bed, I walk past your empty
room and look for the glow of your candle. Tomorrow I'll be
one day closer to meeting you in death.
_______________________________
By Sara DeLeon (former POS member)
Devon Joseph Oglesby
October 6, 1991 ~ February 3, 2006
October 6, 1991 ~ February 3, 2006
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