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You’re listening to The Ghost of Dog on The Voice of Dog.
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Tonight we present a poem by Rob MacWolf,
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who doesn’t seem to be dead just yet.
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You can find more of his work
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in In The Light of the Dawn
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by the Furry Historical Fiction Society,
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or at his SoFurry gallery.
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Read by Ta’kom Ironhoof,
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the Equine Charmer.
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A gravestone may be a comfort:
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as a monument to the memory of the departed, an assertion that they were cared for,
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an aspiration, perhaps,
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to some manner of life eternal or
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resurrection. An anonymous gravestone is unsettling:
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in order for such a thing to exist something, in that process, must not have gone
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as it was supposed to.
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The same may be said
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of an empty grave.
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Resurrection of
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the dead, like a gravestone,
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may cease to be a comforting thought
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when it ceases to go
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as we have expected.
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Please enjoy “We Regret to Inform You
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of a Funeral Cancellation”, a poem by Rob MacWolf
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Well a couple mourners gathered,
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and a bunch more came to stare.
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Course all the casual killers came,
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who'd left him lying there.
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They bought a discount casket
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and a requiem was said
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For the funeral was scheduled,
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for burying the dead.
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Well the preacher called for piety and prayers for the deceased
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Till the gravedigger came running,
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for to interrupt the priest.
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Then the undertaker turned,
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his face all ashes, and he said
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"Afraid the funeral's canceled.
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He ain't dead." Well we hurried to the graveyard.
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This was probably joyous news.
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But the funeral party weren't so much 'joyous' as
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'confused.' The preacher led the way and tried to pray away the dread.
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The funeral was canceled.
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He ain't dead. The grave was standing open,
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the casket there beside
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But both entirely empty,
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not a single thing inside.
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Must've climbed out of the coffin,
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left a mystery there instead:
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The funeral was canceled.
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He aint dead. "I saw him, fer a moment,"
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the gravedigger confessed "A-striding toward the hilltops, makin west,
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or west-northwest. He didn't give no answer,
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he just turned and shook his head.
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S'when I knew the funeral's canceled.
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He ain't dead." Now the undertaker's furious.
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Preacher looks like he might cry.
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But the widow-woman's risen,
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with a fire in her eye.
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She's dropped her veil and walked away, and not a word she said,
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But "Go home, funeral's canceled.
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He ain't dead." Well I guess you've heard of stories of this sort of thing before. Don't
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they still retain the relics of the shroud St. Lazarus wore?
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There's Balder, and there's Orpheus:
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went where live souls fear to tread,
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They had their funerals canceled.
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They weren't dead.
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I remember last I saw him, on the gallows, in the dust.
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A calm was on the crossroads
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where we do the things we must.
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And we all knew he was innocent, no crimes upon his head,
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But his funeral was ready.
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So we made sure he was dead.
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I suppose he's out there somewhere.
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Maybe I'll go find him now.
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I promise when I see him I'll be sure to ask him how,
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Whether it's a curse or blessing,
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that his death to us has spread,
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And what it is that moves a man when life is fully fled...
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Just like Madeline in the Garden:
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"Touch me not," as someone said.
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Now you go cancel my funeral. I ain't
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dead. This was “We Regret to Inform You of a Funeral Cancellation”
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by Rob MacWolf, read for you by Ta’kom Ironhoof, the
