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
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.
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