Out, brief candle...

I hear the news last night, oh boy. A great friend of mine from NYC, Rolf Schrieber, has passed away. Nearly 30 years on this planet, and I hadn't lost more than a distant relative or an acqauintence, and here we are. I knew I wanted to write about him today, but now that I'm here, I'm at a loss for words. Let's see if they come.
All right, something I always told him (him and maybe one other person at most) was that I wished I could bring him down here with me (this was when I realized I was moving to Atlanta a couple years back). I told him that several times. And I meant it. I wish I had him around more often. There has to be a cap on the amount of people you're likely to meet in your life that you sincerely want to stick in a suitcase and bring with you wherever you go. He was one of them.
Rolf was a poet. A great, classical poet, whose brilliant mind and romantic heart fused to create some of the best, most majestic language I've ever heard. And I HEARD it. Because he also had the most wonderful booming articulate voice when he read them. And he READ them. I ran an open mic in the East Village for a little over two years, and he was easily one of the founding fathers of that event. I pulled him down there whenever I could. He once told me I kept him writing. I was terribly flattered, but the truth is, something deep within him kept him writing. Whatever force keeps the Arthurian legends, which he loved, close to the heart, whatever energy keeps the ink on the epic events of the Bible's narratives wet, which he also loved, THAT is what kept him writing.
He was a gentlemen. A gentlemen's gentlemen. Hundreds of women walked home with roses because of him. He had a brilliant mind. He could tell anyone more about what they did than they could, and not with a trace of arrogance, just childlike joy at understanding things. He had immense physical challenges that plagued him from his youth, but never conquered his ability to feel for and care for others. He had a great, guttoral laugh, a hilarious dry wit, and an immediacy that, fortunately, allowed MANY people to feel they were great friends of his.
Okay, some stuff came out. This is good. At this point, I would like to put one of his poems in here, one he sent me a few short weeks before he died.

Brief Candle

How poor to be of flame that casts no light,
That brings no warmth or comfort to this earth
For fear it lacks the substance to ignite,
And starves for lack of purpose and of worth.
Stop brooding in your ashes, pining there
For some great day when you might strike a spark;
That day is now! Take heart and leap the air,
And light your quadrant of the lovelorn dark.
You know this world is cold and sad and craves
Encouragement from every dancing flame,
And always, it is lasting love that saves,
For hearts once lit by it can't stay the same.
For love is light, both warming and consuming,
And can burn forever more, without consuming

RES 2004

I am confident that the next time Rolf opens his eyes, he will be in a wonderful place, the place he has always wanted to be, and will waste no time in taking his own advice, doing something he was never really able to do while here: Leap the air!