THE LOSS OF JOHN O'QUINN

JOHN MAURICE O'QUINN
1941 - 2009

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 in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I do not die.

Mary Frye

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For All Who Mourn

by Arthur Guiterman

That he was near to you
so many a year
But darkens you distress.
Would you he were
less worthy and less dear
That you might grieve the less?

He was a golden font
that freely poured
What goldenly endures,
And though that font be gone,
its bounty stored
and treasured,
Still is yours.

The past is deathless.
Souls are wells too deep
To spend their purest gains.
All that he gave to you
is yours to keep
While memory remains.

Who never had and lost
forlorn are they
Far more that you and I
Who had and have
Judge not the price we pay
For love that cannot die.


Those who knew him were truly blessed. The world was better because he walked in it. I pray that his legacy of generosity will continue on. God Speed, John.

The Touch of the Master's Hand

"Twas battered and scared, and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin,
But he held it up with a smile.
"What am I bidden, good folks," he cried,
"Who'll start bidding for me?
A dollar, a dollar - now who"ll make it two _
Two dollars, and who"ll make it three?

"Three dollars once, three dollars twice,
Going for three". . . but no!
From the room far back a gray-haired man
Came forward and picked up the bow;
Then wiping the dust from the old violin,
And tightening up the strings,
He played a melody,pure and sweet,
As sweet as an angel sings.

The music ceased and the auctioneer
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said: "What am I bidden for the old violin?"
And he held it up with the bow;
"A thousand dollars - and who'll make it two?
Two thousand - and who'll make it three?
Three thousand once, three thousand twice
And going - and gone," said he.

The people cheered, but some of them cried,
"We do not quite understand -
What changed its worth?" The man replied:
"The touch of the masters hand."
And many a man with life out of tune,
And battered and torn with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowd.
Much like the old violin.

A "mess of pottage," a glass of wine,
A game and he travels on,
He's going once, and going twice -
He's going - and almost gone!
But the MASTER comes, and the foolish crowd,
Never can quite understand,
The worth of a soul, and the change that's wrought
By the touch of the MASTER'S hand.

~Myra B. Welch

A Dream in Erotica

BY CAROLE NICHOLS

Lips, so full and lush, brush my ear:
As I hear you whisper
In slow, exquisite detail
What you will do to me this night.
And I whisper, so eagerly, "Yes....yes...."

I feel your tongue, wet as I am,
And I restlessly turn to find it with my mouth,
Taking it inside, to dance hungrily with mine.
Molten heat throbs deep inside
As we move to a beat of erotic bliss.

Your hands touch and tease,
Preparing each and every part of me.
I find myself hungry to touch you
Full-blown and hot, a'quiver,
But you say, "Not yet....."

Your lips blaze a trail of fire,
Sweetly searing, branding my skin;
Sliding down, slowly downward,
To the very heart of me,
Devouring me, magically special.

Till in a soul shattering burst
I lose myself and call out your name;
My body weeping at the beauty of it.
You rise to finally take me fully.
And I smile, and say, "Not yet....my love...."

You sigh and surrender as I kiss your lips,
Tasting the essence of me which remains.
My lips roam until I find you,
Throbbing with the pulse of passion,
And you moan, "Yes....yes...."

My hands and lips seek out
The secrets of your body;
Delighting in the sheen of sweat,
You moving beneath me
In restless anticipation

You struggle for control
And with a growl, low and deep,
You pull me up and claim my mouth once more.
Our eyes meet and hotly burn
And your mouth moves silently, "Now......"

And I feel you filling me,
In a dance as old as time,
Merged and one, giving and taking,
Sending and receiving,
Until time ceases to exist

And we seek out that most perfect ending.
And it comes, exploding out of nowhere and everywhere,
And we cling to each other as stars fall around us
And finally, sated and full,
We smile and begin the dance again.

The Silver One

in the nighttime sky
in the darkness between two days
the silver one goes sailing
flying hand in hand with her sister stars
crying
because the life of man
is an empty dream
- anonymous -


I don't know why this poem touches me so. I found it in some obscure book when I was 13 years old. It had such an effect on me that I memorized instantly, and all these years later, it still makes me sad. And I feel the truth of it, especially in my life.

Sounds of Silence - Lyrics

Artist - Simon and Garfunkle

Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence

In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
'Neath the halo of a street lamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dared
Disturb the sound of silence

"Fools", said I, "You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you"
But my words, like silent raindrops fell
And echoed
In the wells of silence

And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said, "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls"
And whispered in the sounds of silence

Bittersweet

By Carole Nichols


The taste of joy, how bittersweet
Mingled twixt a mother's tears
That justice comes, slowly sure
Cannot erase the lonely years.

A mother's love held fast by faith,
And kindness cushions sadness deep.
Yet much preferred are children's arms
O'er justice coming, full, replete.

The years loom long and empty,
Oh, bittersweet the victory!
Tears mark the grieving lines,
Made deep by aching memory.


May God continue to bless you Virgie Arthur. I'll fight for as long as you do!