When I die, dance.
Whether in dappled sunlight
Amidst a grove of trees,
Frolicking in moonshine
At the ocean’s evening tide,
Under cold incandescent rays
Alone in a silent room,
Or bathed in the sweat, pulse,
And heat of a nightclub floor,
My dying embers will swirl
In the eddy of your motion.
When I die, read.
Prose or poetry,
I have lived in both of these,
Caught in the words of worlds
Created by others.
I have attempted to breathe life
Into them as well.
Though, I pray you honor me
With well-edited verse.
Your readings will carry me out
On a memory of fact and fantasy.
When I die, ruminate.
Let me live in your memories.
Random moments of reanimation
When you remember that you loved me,
That you loathed me, that you miss me.
I pray you don’t obsess on my passing,
Try to paint me as a work of art,
Or prophesize about destinations.
I am gone, but still with you,
The mote of dust in a beam of sunlight,
The niggling whisper at night
That cannot be explained away.
Most of all, when I die, live.
Forgo memorials and tributes
In favor of leaving your own mark.
Be aware, I will find stolen moments
Of life in unplanned commemorations
As you gaze upon the beauty
Of new life, or contemplate death.
So I may breathe in the scents of
Human existence as your walk in smog,
Or momentarily feel the kiss of star shine
As you sit under the night sky
And, for a moment, think of me.
-Jackey Lee Hannah Vizzier. Copyright 2012
Whether in dappled sunlight
Amidst a grove of trees,
Frolicking in moonshine
At the ocean’s evening tide,
Under cold incandescent rays
Alone in a silent room,
Or bathed in the sweat, pulse,
And heat of a nightclub floor,
My dying embers will swirl
In the eddy of your motion.
When I die, read.
Prose or poetry,
I have lived in both of these,
Caught in the words of worlds
Created by others.
I have attempted to breathe life
Into them as well.
Though, I pray you honor me
With well-edited verse.
Your readings will carry me out
On a memory of fact and fantasy.
When I die, ruminate.
Let me live in your memories.
Random moments of reanimation
When you remember that you loved me,
That you loathed me, that you miss me.
I pray you don’t obsess on my passing,
Try to paint me as a work of art,
Or prophesize about destinations.
I am gone, but still with you,
The mote of dust in a beam of sunlight,
The niggling whisper at night
That cannot be explained away.
Most of all, when I die, live.
Forgo memorials and tributes
In favor of leaving your own mark.
Be aware, I will find stolen moments
Of life in unplanned commemorations
As you gaze upon the beauty
Of new life, or contemplate death.
So I may breathe in the scents of
Human existence as your walk in smog,
Or momentarily feel the kiss of star shine
As you sit under the night sky
And, for a moment, think of me.
-Jackey Lee Hannah Vizzier. Copyright 2012