By Marge Piercy

Learning to love differently is hard,
love with the hands wide open, love
with the doors banging on their hinges,
the cupboard unlocked, the wind
roaring and whimpering in the rooms
rustling the sheets and snapping the blinds
that thwack like rubber bands
in an open palm.

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In celebration of loving. :)

So, what do you want your funeral to be like?

Haven't thought about it, huh? You do realise you are going to die, right. I mean come on! It shouldn't really be a surprise by now. Stop trying to ignore your own mortality.

In the words of our good friend Seneca: "...death ought to be right there before the eyes of a young man just as much as an old one- the order in which we each recieve our summons is not determind by our presence in the register." Letter XII

Hopefully when I die they will harvest my organs, burn the rest of me and throw it all off a cliff. No stupid speeches that make people cry, and all of my arty friends must perform. Mwahaha! Then there will be a party with lots of food. I'm still working out the details. ;p

Finally, I think that this poem should be read at everybodys funeral. It's so stirring.

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 sunlight 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 circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

Origins unknown