Memories of the Music Man

This is a poem I wrote for my dad who loved music. He loved to play the trumpet and had played it most of his life.

Memories of the Music Man

By K. Edwards

A lonely March wind blows across the whitered grass.

 

All that remains is everything I see through my minds eye.

 

There is a name chisled in stone staring at the world.

 

A silver casket is lowered deep in the earth below.

 

Sad eyes and wounded tears fall on wind blown flowers.

 

Heavy hearts and weakened souls see the man no more.

 

But the bright star filled sky memories will live on in the heavens.

 

He would have said that life is joy and pain but live it full everyday.

 

Let the silver trumpet play the hymn of good times and better memories.

 

Even though his chair sits empty the spirit of the man will never die.

 

He lived each new day for his Lord and is now rejoycing on golden streets.

 

Pain doesn’t dwell in the joints and marrow anymore but his joy lives on.

 

The days gone by are filled with many thoughts of such happy moments.

 

His laughter like a gentle breeze helps to shed the black veil.

 

Love for his fellow man and his caring ways are written down forever.

 

All of the man’s family was so loved and cared for by the noble leader.

 

His words take new life as he told the world him to have a good one!

 

Even though hearts are heavy the memories help to lighten the load.

 

Heaven waits for us all who believe and the man will be standing at the gate.

 

Till then we will go on and live but never forget the light he brought to our world.

 

My so loved Dad I will miss you everyday but I will always think fondly of you.

 

The sands of time can take our mortal lives but they can never take away a memory.

 

 

The man who lived his life like a symphony who filled each page to a Cresendo.

 

He will live on even as his weathered stone fades in the Autumn sunlight.

 

In mind, My heart, My Soul he will always be my Dad.

 

But he was even more then an earthly parent,

 

He was my friend.

 

Copyright 4-14-07

Reviews

[W R Stowe]

Grief is like playing a movie, some good memories and some not so good. I am no stranger to it and no matter how prepared we think we are it still hits us just as hard. Thanks for sharing this well written poem