Diane Webster
MEMORIAM
The funeral was well attended
for the 93-year-old man
who was a fixture of the town
and whom everyone had seen
just yesterday
before he died.
So weird to see the casket
carried in and out the church,
in and out the hearse,
into the ground,
into such a small space
for the man who touched
the universe that lived
or visited this small town.
How fitting he become one
with the town’s earth
sprouting grass and tendrils
of morning glory like memories
remembered throughout the town.
Bio: My challenge as a poet is to remain open to idea opportunities whether that’s by witnessing a scuffle on the sidewalk or noticing the sunrise’s reflection on my white pants. My work has appeared in “Illya’s Honey,” “The Hurricane Review,” “Philadelphia Poets” and other literary magazines.
Author’s Comment: This poem is about a man who was our town’s unofficial historian -— one of those old people who liked to tell stories about the people and places he knew. Never at a loss for words he reminded me of my grandfather. When I’d visit Grandpa, he’d tell such amazing stories of his life and times, and I’d listen with wonderful excitement. Whether these stories were entirely true or not, didn’t matter to me. This is the feel I got from Gordon. When he died, a piece of Grandpa died again.
Wild Goose Poetry Review 
Oh, I love this. It reminds me of the grave of my favorite teacher. She’s buried in a cemetery near the center of our small town. A walking trail goes just past the quiet corner where she rests–when I walk there, I stop by and remember her.