May death bring us life and love

May love not stop with death

Now that I am no longer confined to my body,

I am free to rejoin my world once again

one spirit

When I die, I want tears.

Tears from laughter and joy for a lovely life lived

May spur all.

and when you start to cry, laugh too.

Bring the mariachi band.

Stop and appreciate the shade,

the sun, the moon, flowers, trees, mountains, ants, books, birds in the sky

Waste not another moment to start living!

Mourning. Do not mourn what is lost.

Celebrate me!

Know that you have the present.

The past is gone.

The future is uncertain.

Use this gift wisely.

And when I die, do not ask where I go

… But celebrate where I have been.

Be bold.

Be alive.

Be yourself.

Be loving, & compassionate

Be merry.

Champagne and extravagant food.

I want gunshots and fireworks!

Music! Dancing!

In lieu of flowers, climb a tree.

No, I want fall roses and wildflowers.

May death bring us life and love

By a Kentucky gal

One Last Poem for Richard by Sandra Cisneros

December 24th and we’re through again.
This time for good I know because I didn’t
throw you out — and anyway we waved.
No shoes. No angry doors.
We folded clothes and went
our separate ways.
You left behind that flannel shirt
of yours I liked but remembered to take
your toothbrush. Where are you tonight?

Richard, it’s Christmas Eve again
and old ghosts come back home.
I’m sitting by the Christmas tree
wondering where did we go wrong.

Okay, we didn’t work, and all
memories to tell you the truth aren’t good.
But sometimes there were good times.
Love was good. I loved your crooked sleep
beside me and never dreamed afraid.

There should be stars for great wars
like ours. There ought to be awards
and plenty of champagne for the survivors.

After all the years of degradations,
the several holidays of failure,
there should be something
to commemorate the pain.

Someday we’ll forget that great Brazil disaster.
Till then, Richard, I wish you well.
I wish you love affairs and plenty of hot water,
and women kinder than I treated you.
I forget the reason, but I loved you once,
remember?

Maybe in this season, drunk
and sentimental, I’m willing to admit
a part of me, crazed and kamikaze,
ripe for anarchy, loves still.