We dashed his ashes at the lake house, beside the cool deep waters that he loved so much. A Lighting Designer of rare talent, a gentle fun loving kind soul. Much missed. A few days after he died, this came to me. Along with many other poems read aloud at the gathering today, I read this.
Have you written prose to be read at a funeral or memorial? Care to share it here with us?
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A Silenced Stage.
The Play’s the thing
Wherein we’ll catch the conscience of the king
As our Bard proclaimed one clotted spring
When scabbards clang and glittered rings
Leapt out into the darkened house.
Desire’s a cup that overflows
As every theatergoer knows with
Earnest hopeful yearning born for
Lusty laud it’s not of scorn.
The haggard players take their place with pancake clinging to their face
Rewritten scenes so fresh a-mind that inner visions are struck blind
The flys be filled with scrims so stilled before they dress the heart and mind
A glorious billow descends in kind akin to landscapes one would find
Outside the door, beyond the stage, beyond the nexus of the age
We dreamers come to make this thing from up the rafters and the wings
With sets and props and playful things each drop of humor we would wring
From written word and fine intent we work this theater; pay the rent.
With art and craft and lofty goals we fire the limelight’s, stir the coals.
The ghost light stands- silent defence
Of moments borne of circumstance and drama, laughter and offense
Meant only to enhance by cruelest phrase or lustful glance
A thousand thousand thousand hands worn out by clapping at
the end
The stage goes dark; the blacks descend
And in the wings, we’ve lost our friend.