2011 -- 4.1 (Fall) Poetry


By: Rose Lindsay Rowe


the day my father’s remains were put in the ground

it did not rain

nor was it gloomy

it wasn’t especially beautiful either.


it just was.


a mediocre day;

a mediocre life.


he was surrounded by


(who didn’t really know him)



(who only knew how to take advantage of him)




(who didn’t know him at all)

who hollowed out a small, square opening in the earth

and in it carefully placed the gray, cardboard box

containing what was left of my father’s corporeal self

then replaced the dirt

and gently tamped down the sod he had previously peeled away


and if a person walked by

five minutes after we had all departed

that soul would not have known

that someone was just buried beneath that very spot


so no one could tell the difference

that he had died at all

or even really lived.


RIP Ray Albert Weaver  Dec. 10, 1956- Dec. 27, 2006