Epitaph To Be Written On The Winds And Waves Poem by Rob Dyer

When I am gone, think no more ill of me;
say, “He has traveled to another land,
as he so often wished,
these long, blonde-stone years
among an alien race and alien cenotaphs.”

Preserve not this corpse.
All that maintained its wondrous, intricate design
has left its withered systems far behind,
resumed its sizeless form there where
our universe is but a passing game,
a bubble ever blown,
requiring time and place
where time and place are null.

Preserve not its ashy dust.
Throw it not in the face of Love, but let him go
in a mountain stream or a passing wave.
Think, “He has packed his baggage for another place,
left but some fleeting gestures, a half-remembered phrase,
some treasured books, his own ill-written words.”
Watch, if you will, the Pleiades at night;
a wise man taught him once the gate is there
to where we were before. He studied long,
for this day, the starry paths he drew,
and learned to pass by time and space
to where time and space are null.

Dear Sons (of mine and His) ,
It is a dazzling game, this game God made
for you and me: 'Imagine there is
dark matter where God and light is not;
wrap in thought each minutest emptiness
with all the force and power eternal in our home,
and let each spin, like a hollow pingpong ball,
housing within its skin
congravitation’s quarks in infinite design;
generate laws in pairs, sevens, tens and twelves,
the joy of on and OFF, of circles, squares,
divide and multiply;
make forces act in laws of love, relative and infinite.
Inhabit as you will the complext forms thus made.”

And so we come and go, the children of the game.
But games can weary too - now they are
yours to play and mine to leave.
But ask yourselves, “Has God a single game to play? ”
This game was fun: joy, tears and peace,
triumph, disaster and a valley stream,
and, in the end, one weary player.

Imagine I have won the right to make the next mine own:
there will be oceans, winds and waves and storms,
where I will fly like a great bird, within, without,
soaring ever in the traveling hurricane
(whence one of you arrived) , that was,
for all this time, my quiet home within.'