Longer ago than I care to remember; my English Professor once said that the hardest thing an aspiring poet can write is his ... or her own eulogy. (Without making the readers reach for a sick-bag.)
So; even though I have no intention of dropping off the perch for a considerable time, as yet;
here's mine...


When I am gone, weep not, for me; but raise a glass; be of good cheer.
No morbid dirge... no unctuous priest who means no single word he speaks.
For, I am never really lost... not whilst my words, and thoughts lie here;
and, I would see the Ladies smile...
not waste their tears upon their cheeks.

Lady Love has smiled on me, as we have danced among the stars;
for, She has let me keep the dream of Love... and how it ought to be.
No trail of Broken hearts; though I have loved, and lost... no hurt to mar
the dream,
and that... perhaps, is why, this is my style of poetry.

All I would ask... Six feet of Mother Earth, where I might peaceful, sleep;
no Oaken coffin... pretty casket; just a simple winding sheet.
The swifter, to return into her arms... our covenant, to keep;
Earth to Earth...
indeed, the last, Great Adventure I will meet.

And so, perhaps, a Marker Stone with simple words... nothing sublime:
He strove to bring a gentle smile...
and, He could weave a pretty rhyme.