Sometime later on, I dreamed about a funeral and rose early from my bed to write it down while the memory was fresh. The words flowed in poetic form which I titled simply "The Funeral." Writing down what I had dreamt the night before used to be a fun and interesting hobby of mine but it was very time consuming and I have since gotten out of the habit.
For many years "The Funeral" remained in my old wire-bound, handwritten journal and occasionally, when I ran across it while searching for some other perceived treasure, I thought of Gwendolyn Brooks and how her life experiences evolved into words on paper...her wisdom thus shared freely with a world in much need of it.
Unlike her volumes of well recognized and published work, my poetry is largely unpublished and I feel privileged to post a piece of it here. I dare not compare my work to hers for I would fall far short.
by Di Pugh
They marched up the street in rhythm jive
held together by the black box burden they each had part to.
up the way they came
the burden they carried had not even a name
just some old dude with silver hair.
The neighbors watched
yet it did not seem strange
looking out doors with holes where the dog wants in they only watched
it was an every day game.
When they reached the corner to turn the last mile they suddenly stopped
and gone were all smiles.
They began to chant another slower rhythm jive
You didn’t sing to the drums.
We must go back where we started from.
Sing! when you see us come’n.
Sing! as we pass on by.
Sing! till we’re gone plumb out’a sight.
Sing! till the wind sighs with a fevered scream.
Sing! till this old black box rest in the angels wings.