| To: goldworldnet who wrote (1) | 2/27/2015 2:25:28 PM | | From: Neeka | | | | Very sorry for your loss Josh. My Dad passed at the age of 67 in 1995, and although the pain of losing him has diminished over time, I miss him very much and treasure his memory. I wish the same for you.
M |
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| To: ManyMoose who wrote (14) | 3/5/2015 12:26:30 AM | | From: Augustus Gloop | | | | The older I become the more profound loss becomes. As I get older the more I become that we do see them on the other side.
Personal experience -
The loss of my dad was really hard. BUT - the day of his funeral (and since) I've felt that his death wasn't the last time I'd see dad. I can't explain it - I just know I'm right. Call it intuition or faith - call it whatever - I'll see dad again as well as the friends I've buried (and theres been too many). Logically it makes no sense but SPIRITUALLY it does.
We don't just float away folks........that's not how it works - I'm confident of that. |
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| To: ManyMoose who wrote (16) | 3/5/2015 10:34:33 PM | | From: Augustus Gloop | | | | Faith is everything because sometimes that's all we have.
Faith also = hope
We can live without many things but hope isn't one of them......water , food and *** being the others <g>
Oh.....and toilet paper!
Sorry......just trying to lighten the mood |
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| To: goldworldnet who wrote (1) | 4/5/2015 3:36:12 AM | | From: goldworldnet | | | | 
Joyce Wright (1954-2004)
The Winter Rose (1989)
(Josh Wright)
There is the legend of the winter rose,
A flower that grows from the driven snow.
A blossom of winter with a fragrance so sweet,
That who ever should behold it would never sleep.
Deep from my slumber on a winter's night
I awoke with the vision of this flower's delight.
Its bright glistening red petals each covered in ice
Danced full of moonbeams and was worth any price.
I was shaken, I stirred, I took hold of my heart.
I put on my clothes and went into the dark.
On through the drifts and the icy plains
I searched for this flower, seemingly in vain.
Across the still valleys to the mountains most high
I was determined to search to the day I did die.
Though weary and tired, still continuing to believe
The search would continue as long as I did breathe.
My limbs were frozen and frostbitten with pain,
Not knowing of hope or what I might gain.
My movements were slowing, my life slipping away
I knelt down to god and to god I did pray.
That as the creator of both heaven and earth
Who knew of my life, before my own birth.
Why was I then woken from my deep sleep
To cry out in pain with the gnashing of teeth
With a burden so great my heart could not bear
The time till my death, and the flower not there?
And as I knelt there all crusted in ice,
God told me then that there wasn't a price.
That no man on earth, nor any beast
Could seek on his own and ever find peace.
And who so ever chose to follow his own way
Would reap not reward on the great day.
And verily the fine flower for which you do seek
Is not in any valley, nor on any peak.
For your Red Rose is here in my hand,
Seek after me and follow my plan.
Then there was quiet and all became still
And the needs of my heart I could not fill.
The word I had heard, the words He had spoken,
Had mended my heart, a heart that was broken.
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| To: Stan who wrote (19) | 4/6/2015 12:37:10 PM | | From: goldworldnet | | | | Yes, she was a very pretty girl, but more than that she had a very sweet nature and everyone loved her. The poem was written during a difficult time in our marriage when Joyce had lost confidence in me and that was mostly my fault, but the poem helped restore her faith in me and it meant a lot to her. Of course 15 years later after she had a heart attack and died at work, the poem took on a whole new meaning for me learning to live without her.
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