This is just poetry. It won't save you, but it may locate you so that a rescue party can be sent out. — Dean Blehert

Sunday, April 12, 2009


When my time comes to live,
give me a simple burial in plain flesh,
don't make a big fuss -- give me a name,
milk, trinkets to toy with. Don't
grieve long for me. I am not lost.
I go but to another kind of death.

[Note: For a few of you, this may be obscure. It posits the following: We are spiritual beings for whom flesh is at least as much an entrapment as means of enabling communications. Thus birth is a form of burial, and a spiritual being, about to take on a body, might consider this a kind of death.]

Dean Blehert
Blogs: (short poems) (essays and longer poems)
New book (Deanotations, Volume 1) available at

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