In Memoriam: David Diorio, 1925-2022
Part of me died today, in other words,
a friend. Maybe two fingers, as it were, hanging
stiff and useless from my right hand: so many
fingers already gone! Yet I still grip my pen.
Death is part of life, he said; yet thrive,
become life’s play of light and shadow;
even if you limp, walk on. Think Think
Think Think, but don’t bash in your head!
Dave’s wife, a poet and friend, died in 1997.
After twenty years of widowhood, he
passed away in his sleep, age 96.
I wanted to call him the day before he died,
but didn’t. Busy entropy was quicker.
Time made speech and walking difficult;
yet his mind remained sharp to the end.
He left behind loving kin, and many friends.
He said he accepted entropy’s
devastating changes. Despite them,
life goes on; light goes on, he said,
within and without us, perhaps forever.
Despite silence, despite sorrow, I want
to hear an anchored angel sing him to his rest–
Faith turns her kaleidoscope. Pieces fall into place.
Everything is quiet. I hear him yet!
Editor’s Note: David Diorio, (1925-2022), was well known to many members of the Greater Baltimore poetry community; he arranged poetry readings for several years. His wife, Margaret, who died in 1997, was an accomplished poet. Dorsett read this poem at Diorio’s funeral.
© Thomas Dorsett
Examples of Thomas Dorsett‘s poetry have appeared in over 500 literary journals, including Confrontation, Southern Poetry Review, North Carolina Review, The Texas Review, Poem, and California Quarterly. He is the author of a number of collections as well. In addition to being a poet, a translator, and an essayist, he also has been a medical doctor for many years.