On the passing of Aralee Strange, founder and host
of the Athens Word of Mouth open poetry community,
June 15, 2013 at her home, "Timberdance"
Athens, Georgia
July 3, 2013; revised June 28 2015
In some place primeval
the priestess holds court
where rhythms take form
your spirit’s reborn
as sirens sing in sotto voce,
the Sibyl raves a praise to Gaia,
long-mute furies chant
in tongues, and fiery nuns
rap truth to knaves. None
can name the kind of faith
that rocked your soul
in the bosom of Timberdance,
but a warm spring bathed
your late years, submerging self
to nurture words in perfect strangers.
It’s just the broken way
of things that what we love
will leave too soon.
Authentic poets never die,
they just transcend. Their words
become their epitaph
their thoughts a meme,
their spirits, muse. Unburdened
of body returned to the source,
to the place beyond words
where they go to be born,
your essence awaits:
A brief note, held sweet
against silence
echoes forever
the memory of grace.
as sirens sing in sotto voce,
the Sibyl raves a praise to Gaia,
long-mute furies chant
in tongues, and fiery nuns
rap truth to knaves. None
can name the kind of faith
that rocked your soul
in the bosom of Timberdance,
but a warm spring bathed
your late years, submerging self
to nurture words in perfect strangers.
It’s just the broken way
of things that what we love
will leave too soon.
Authentic poets never die,
they just transcend. Their words
become their epitaph
their thoughts a meme,
their spirits, muse. Unburdened
of body returned to the source,
to the place beyond words
where they go to be born,
your essence awaits:
A brief note, held sweet
against silence
echoes forever
the memory of grace.
Bob, if there is illumination in death's darkness you have hit it here. What good words, both in honor of Aralee as well of those of us left to remember her spirit and work. Thanks for being part of the Word of Mouth community, we are all richer for your poetry.
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