Of Ashes…

Of Ashes…

In such a small unearthly urn

Where father’s ashes lay,

Can it be that all he learned

Will be interred today?

Can everything that he discerned

Be fitted well within

This modest, gilded funeral urn

Inscribed with seraphim?

An urn so small, so light in weight,

How can it hold a man

Whose late accomplishments were great,

Who lived a mortal’s span?

A billion words, ideas and thoughts

In such a little urn;

A million dos and don’ts and oughts

Exhausted in the after burn?

These insubstantial ashes hide

The substance of our dad,

With all his faults and all his pride

And all that drove us mad.

Substance is the paradox

These ashes symbolize;

Something that the orthodox

Believers eulogize.

More certain was his comedy

And phosphorescent wit,

Always at the ready, dear,

To skewer a pompous twit.

Where be your mocking anecdotes?

Where now your jesting gibes?

All ashes, dust and motley motes

To rest in lands of native tribes.

Mark Sconce