For those who were at the service on September 12th, 2015, below is the poem I recited. There are no words to surmise a man, but we try as best we can to seal his memory with love and tribute.
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Our father who art in heaven
Sings the song of every bird
Fills the moss on every stone
Lends his hand from every tree.
The sun kisses our skin
And we are reminded
The wind pushes our boat
And we grow kinder
Thoughts alive of
Such a man, so dear he was,
To this kindred land.
That now with every rounded corner
There comes another stone turned over
Where Popplins Rogers could have walked
And may have, sure, why not…
His stories were not far between
His want for ‘venture could not be beat
His criticism was for himself
His bar was set so high, indeed.
My brothers from another mother
I now know better, its thanks to you.
My sister from a priceless mother
Has a very high IQ – it’s true.
And when it comes to Ted
He was another kind of bread
Not one before him like him
Not one again shall come.
I like to think he’s dead
With a knowing smile on his head
Catacombed amongst his books
With Nietsze in his Venetian bed.
His death is a reminder
to be wary of your head
And body, treat them kind,
So down the line, as best down we can wind.
Melancholy cast your net
Away from our clear waters
Anxiety you can relieve
With willing meditation.
We breathe deeply to comply
With the reason that God made us,
To his faithful memory, we breathe relief,
Our grieving a final masterpiece.
To fill our bodies
And our minds
With peaceful grace of
Inner tides
My wax and wane
Will not depart
Emotions run deep and quiet
in my heart
Like my father,
now behind the vault -
There is an art to silence.