Tears, Idle Tears

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,

Tears from the depth of some divine despair

Rise in the heart, and gather in the eyes,

In looking on the happy autumn-fields,

And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,

That brings our friends up from the underworld,

Sad as the last which reddens over one

That sinks with all we love below the verge;

So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns

The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds

To dying ears, when unto dying eyes

The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;

So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,

And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned

On lips that are for others; deep as love,

Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;

O Death in Life, the days that are no more!

~ Alfred, Lord Tennyson

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tears,_Idle_Tears

Do Not Stand ...

"Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep” 

is a poem written in 1932 by Mary Elizabeth Frye. 

Although the origin of the poem was disputed until later in her life, 

Mary Frye's authorship was confirmed in 1998 after research

 by Abigail Van Buren, a newspaper columnist.^[1]

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.

The Stories Book

I wanted a book. For my funeral. To be handed out. A take-away. Something more than the picture boards. When I realized that the book would have to have permissions from other authors and creators - in order to use their works - I let that go. Perhaps I can create a PDF and link.

And a blog.

I've been to a few marvelous funerals and plenty of non-marvelous as well. Each time I think if I had 10% of the friends I would consider it successful.

This is a start to things I wanted to share with you.

Wild life

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do 
with your one wild and precious life?” 
― Mary Oliver

Coffin

Mind you I grew up in the middle of the American Dream and have long thought that I could have as much as I wanted. Feeling fairly comfortable with that idea I never wanted much and never wanted for much that I did not already have.

For awhile in my twenties, when I was a bit unrooted and moving, I thought I wanted a coffin in my house. My mother had read Jessica Mitford’s The American Way of Death, 1963. The point I took from that rant about the funeral system was that I did not need to buy a coffin from the system. I could have my own pine box and that was perfectly legal. ( I did not need one if I was not going to be buried, but …)

I wanted a coffin like I wanted a teepee. I wanted a coffin to be part of my life furniture to become me and my moves. I wanted to be scraped, scarred, dropped, burned, stained, and used. And later, buried in it … except I didn’t want to be buried.

The coffin, a custom-made box, could easily have been used as a coffee table or a book shelf. I would have carried it with me, spilled my beer on it, and carved my love in it. I might have even packed it with some of that stuff you can’t take with you.

Even later, well into the American Dream, I figured I wanted both ashes and granite. It’s America. You can have it all.

By this time I had lost both my father and brother and I loved knowing where they were.

I have not given up on the ashes, but having lived in the same house for the last 20 years I don’t think I can convince my wife to adopt new furniture.

I did so far as to ask my youngest brother to quote me on a box. Never heard from him. Not too late.

Heinous European Criminal Cremated Mediterranean

I've known since the age of 10 that I wanted to be cremated when I died. If we look at the actual years and numbers maybe I was nine. But the story says 10 so we're going to stay with that.

What I remember is the idea of glittering ashes falling down to the glittering sea. I grew up in Williams Bay on beautiful Lake Geneva and the idea of glittering was firmly in my mind.

Apparently a heinous European criminal was cremated and his ashes were spread over the Mediterranean. In those days we had a black-and-white television so I couldn't see the colored water except in my imagination.

Finally, decades later, I put those keywords into the search engine and found out that this was the execution of Adolf Eichmann by the Israelis after the Nuremberg trials.

We were not particularly political. We're not Jewish or German at our house. I don't recall any discussion about this particular event. It's just that it burned in and set pretty quickly on me.

And so  … a start.

Waltzing Matilda - Memorial Day 2015

Here’s a tune Joan Baez does that brings me to tears every time I hear it. That alone recommends it to my stories. I had not ever heard this until I was gifted a Baez compilation for my 60th birthday. Still … timeless. Mind you, I cannot find the exact lyrics that were sung on that compilation CD. This will put you in the space.

Joan Baez

And The Band Played Waltzing Matilda

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_E9Nu8JinM0

Now when I was a young lad I carried me pack

And I lived the free life of the rover.

From the Murray's green banks, to the dusty outback

While I waltzed my Matilda all over.

Then in 1915, my country said, 'Son,

It's time you stop ramblin', there's work to be done.'

So they gave me a tin hat, and they gave me a gun,

And they marched me away to the war.

And the band played 'Waltzing Matilda,'

As the ship pulled away from the quay,

Amidst the songs and the cheers, the flag waving, and tears,

We sailed off for Gallipoli.

And how well I remember that terrible day,

How our blood stained the sand we call Suvla Bay

We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter.

The big Turkish shell caught me arse over head,

And when I woke up in my hospital bed

And saw what it had done, well, I wished I was dead

Never knew there was worse things than dying.

So I'll go no more 'Waltzing Matilda,'

or through the green bush bars and wide

For to hunt and tent peg a man needs both legs,

No more 'Waltzing Matilda' for me.

They gathered the injured, the wounded, the maimed,

And they shipped us all back to Australia.

The armless, the legless, the blind, the insane,

Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla.

And as our ship sailed into Circular Quay,

I looked at the place where me legs used to be,

And thanked Christ there was nobody waiting for me,

To mourn, and to grieve, and to pity.

And the band played "Waltzing Matilda"

As they wheeled us down the gangway.

And nobody cheered, they just stood and stared.

And they all turned their faces away.

And the band still plays 'Waltzing Matilda,'

And the young men still answer the call,

But as year follows year,those old men disappear

Someday, no one will march there at all.

Waltzing Mathilda, Waltzing Mathilda

Who'll come a-waltzing Mathilda with me

And their ghosts may be heard as you pass the Billabong

Who'll come a-waltzing Mathilda with me ?