This poem sits like a lead weight on the heart. Cruel disease, death, survivor's guilt . . . all contribute to an open wound. Knees are used as expert synecdoche, standing in not only for your father but his guilt at arriving late. The tastelessness of "obscene organ music," "tinny speakers" and pink lights stand in as real world affronts to her memory, even as you (and your father) struggled to come to grips with your loss. For anyone who has ever stood at graveside and seen a loved one entering the city of the dead, the sense of loss is overwhelming. The poem's final lines place the reader there. I know your heartache . . .
Now is not the time to edit your poem, it is the time to savor, to remember, to give thanks for blessings made more poignant by their impermanence. A well-written poem and valuable bit of catharsis for the poet. This is what makes your writing so special.
Remember me in sun splash silvered hills,
In pensive moments lazing by a steam,
In reveries that flow in gilded rills
To foaming seas and to the land of dream.
Remember me, but only with a smile,
And sigh at myosotis in the lea;
Partake of its one blossoming a while,
Its blue corolla and its mystery.
Remember me beside a long lost lane
Of twilight-ribboned indigo and gray
Aglint in fading shades of ochre stain
Belonging neither to the night nor day.
Do these things darling in my memory
And I will know that you remember me.