"death of a Poet Or Not?"
My brother and sisters as we stand here today...to lie to rest the
poetry man in what will be his final resting place. Some say that he wrote of
pain, some say he wrote about death…some say that it was about a love he
never obtained...Some say he wrote about the birds and bees. I say that the
poetry man wrote about all these things...he spoke words that made a poem
come to life, not just mere words sputtered out of one’s mouth, but of words
that became art on one’s brain and embedded in the soul for a lifetime. As we
lay the poetry man down to his final resting place…in the cold and rain of a
October winters day. I will never forget what he would always say to me. ”
Poetry is a form of art, that when placed on loose sheets of paper becomes a
canvas on another man’s heart...Poetry is not just for those who are smart, but
for all those who can truly appreciate the works that become mind art." He
spent his whole life trying to paint a picture on the mind of people whom he
may never see or meet. He once said to me, "That a poem once read can only
cease to be…when the mind that read it can no longer breath… but if placed on
a piece paper it will be art for the whole world to read and would never cease to
be." I said to him, “I disagree… death of a poet, I say not...because your
mind became it's very own canvas, now it's a living and breathing piece of
art.
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