A Poem (and mandalas, of course) (power up 100%)

I wrote this poem after pondering obituaries. Since I really like genealogical research and family trees, I often find obituaries to be a place to discover new names and how people are related. It's interesting to read how a person's whole life has been summed up in what is usually a pretty small article.

It would be better if we would share stories about those we love, who have died. Some stories would prompt other stories, and soon a larger, better and more intimate a portrait would emerge. We'd be better able to see that most people's effects and influence are far greater than an obituary can sum up.

This poem's title contains my father's date of death. The poem was written a few years later.

Obit., February 2, 2001

It is funny and untrue
that a life can be reduced
to a piddling few short paragraphs of print.

It is futile and unreal
To so condense the threescore-nine-plus years
of love, hate,
    joy, sorrow,
        rage, peace,
            fear, courage.

The exponential levels
of connection and effect cannot be
captured on a page or in a book.

Only we, the left behind, can barely start to grasp
that awesome spread of influence
if our connections in communion are shared.

If stories break like bread and fish before us,
laughter and tears the wine that lubricates our touch,
baskets overflowing with meaning we’ll carry away.

In the telling springs new life.
           In the sharing spreads new warmth.
                      In the hearing is born new hope.

[In memory of George Hastings Marks, (1932-2001)]

Comment! Can you identify with this? Whom have you lost whose memory you preserve by telling stories? Tell one, if you'd like to.

Peace.