music has an afterlife, creation, a hereafter; like echoes of a conversation -- anger, tears, or laughter -- i hear your music now, and think how strange is time and fortune to know you, and this place, are gone, but hear you sans distortion
(In memory of Roy Harris…)
(12-17-2001 edited 9-6-2015)
She sleeps where none today may go
Amid the forest full of snow;
Relieved from all her cares as such.
The thousands who her teaching touched
Upon the frigid earth are spread;
Though some have joined among the dead.
The teacher stopped, her work is done –
And I remember such a one
As helped me when my way was dark,
Who sleeps, snow-covered, in the park
She sleeps, snow-covered, in
The park
(This was a prose piece in its original conception – Owen)
Maybe you don’t believe
But if you do, even a little
You recognize that grief is sacred
You don’t intrude on it
You don’t impose on it
You don’t use it
But while grief abounds
In every corner and shadow of this and every land
People seek to turn it to their various uses
Why?
Do we not recognize the essential tragedy of this life?
Do we really think that we can control the hallowed sadness of others for our own purposes?
Are we that haughty and that amoral?
Do we respond to harm done to others with sympathy?
Or with slogans?
