You dwelled in the land of Indian paintbrush
And mile-high cities touching the sky,
Mountains and desert and wildlife teeming
In a place close to angels on high.
A troubadour sent for our day and time
To help our souls soar still again,
To look to the good side of life on this earth
Amidst anger and sorrow and pain.
You were a poet, a singer, a dreamer, a dad
A man who lived first to love
Be it God, or children, or desert, or forest
Or creatures on plains or above.
Your voice held a sparkle, euphony, laughter,
Like water sliding down stream beds of stones.
Like silver in sunlight or geese on the wing
It lent magic to words and to tones.
A passion to fly led you out one day,
A passion that gave you great joy.
A Hand from above reached down to claim
Your soul from out of your toy.
You were a gift from our Father, as was your music.
Pictures and tunes still remain.
Our country and world are lessened by loss
But you live on in our hearts just the same.
-- Shirlee L. Laskarzewski October 22-23, 1997
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