Do not stand at my grave and weep

Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circling flight.

I am the soft starlight at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry, 

   I am not there; I did not die.           

                      

                                                      -- Mary Elizabeth Frye

I came across this first in a favourite light read of mine, Alan Titchmarsh's Rosie. I love the serenity of the poem. It's sad, but it soothes too. Sometimes.

Keep Running

I seem to be rushing through my days.
Blurred moments, blurred faces, blurred ache.
Running on. Running on.
Always on.
No way to rest. No place for fatigue.
Forward. Forward. I don't want to any more.
Somebody make it stop!
Don't stop,
Don't stop. To move is to hurt, but to stop is to die.
Don't weep,
Don't weep. There will always be enough time for tears.
Keep running.
Don't panic,
Don't panic. Fear is a friend. Fear will keep you alive.
Don't fight,
Don't fight. Even when the walls close in.
Keep running.
It will pass.
The thud beats out a rhythm.
Forward. Forward.
No hurts. No tears. No regrets.
Even when it bleeds.
Even when I break apart into a thousand tiny pieces.
Even when I see the hilarious injustice of it all.
Even when the grounds falls away under my feet.
Keep running. Keep running.
Someday there will be rest.
Someday the tears will flow.
Someday there will be no fear.
Someday I can let go.
Someday. Not now.
Keep running. Keep running.

What They Say of Me

They say I'm brave. They do not see I'm terrified.

They say I'm impertinent. They do not see that a world inherited by the meek is not worth the trouble.

They say I laugh too much. They do not see that life is not for the grim.

They say I'm loud. They do not see that my silence has no place for them.

They say I'm smart. They do not see that it's exactly what makes me stupid.

They say I'm unsympathetic. They do not see how hollow a "I understand" sounds to someone in pain.

They say I'm wishful. They do not see that stops me from making wishes.


They say I'm childish to begin sentences with "One day in the future...". They do not see how every second feels like borrowed time.

They say I hate everyone. They do not see that includes me too.


They say I'm weird. They do not see it protects me against mundane normalcy.

They say I'm alive. They do not see that I had wanted not to be.

They say I don't believe in miracles. They do not see I'm living one. Just like each one of them.