CREEK ROAD GANG
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Zea Ginsburg Piver:
3 Poems from
her Papa Poetry Series
copyright 2009
Vigilance
I hadn’t turned my cell phone off, nor left it out of earshot in sixteen days -
not since I was told you had weeks at best to live.
Yet, in the early morning of the day you died, I left it in my gym locker
hoping it safe to leave your deathwatch for a quick half hour.
After minutes on the treadmill, your labored inhale and exhale
reach my own lungs and breath. I gasp and I know:
There are seven messages on my cell phone by the time I reach my locker.
Legs, arms wobble in joints, I fumble the phone, madly press buttons, hear:
“Your father’s breathing has changed. Come now. Drive carefully.”
Drive carefully? I can’t stand, put on my coat, walk, find car keys.
There is only: Don’t leave me Dad, let me reach your side this one last time --
wait for me.
I hadn’t turned my cell phone off, nor left it out of earshot in sixteen days -
not since I was told you had weeks at best to live.
Yet, in the early morning of the day you died, I left it in my gym locker
hoping it safe to leave your deathwatch for a quick half hour.
After minutes on the treadmill, your labored inhale and exhale
reach my own lungs and breath. I gasp and I know:
There are seven messages on my cell phone by the time I reach my locker.
Legs, arms wobble in joints, I fumble the phone, madly press buttons, hear:
“Your father’s breathing has changed. Come now. Drive carefully.”
Drive carefully? I can’t stand, put on my coat, walk, find car keys.
There is only: Don’t leave me Dad, let me reach your side this one last time --
wait for me.
Winter
the deep freeze of winter
arrives this year
november 14, 2008
the day you die
a virulent frost
steals beneath your skin
invades your corpse
after your last in-breath
lungs become
a frozen river
my arm across your chest
a motionless hug
my cheek rests
to yours
glassy and arctic
as ice on windowpane
crystallized gaze
reaches to some
quiet radiance
i’ve become an unseen past
you’ve renounced
circling seasons
for a final hibernation
you know i never liked winter
Never Say Never
But I will never --
Pick up the phone to “hi honey, it’s Dad”
Walk in the woods next to your gentle stride
Hear you sing folksongs in Russian and French
Share your delight as we split a “chocolate decadence”
Pick you up at the airport returning from work in India’s slums
Know details of our ancestry and your untold life stories
Because you, our family's patriarch, have died
Whoever coined never say never
Never loved someone who
Walked through
Death’s Door
the deep freeze of winter
arrives this year
november 14, 2008
the day you die
a virulent frost
steals beneath your skin
invades your corpse
after your last in-breath
lungs become
a frozen river
my arm across your chest
a motionless hug
my cheek rests
to yours
glassy and arctic
as ice on windowpane
crystallized gaze
reaches to some
quiet radiance
i’ve become an unseen past
you’ve renounced
circling seasons
for a final hibernation
you know i never liked winter
Never Say Never
But I will never --
Pick up the phone to “hi honey, it’s Dad”
Walk in the woods next to your gentle stride
Hear you sing folksongs in Russian and French
Share your delight as we split a “chocolate decadence”
Pick you up at the airport returning from work in India’s slums
Know details of our ancestry and your untold life stories
Because you, our family's patriarch, have died
Whoever coined never say never
Never loved someone who
Walked through
Death’s Door
Biographical Note: I have been an avid journal writer for years. My first diary dates back to second or third grade. When I was in my late teens I noticed there were sections of writing, amidst my journaling, that resembled poems. Just before I turned eighteen years of age, I extracted a number of these so-called poems from my journals and hand copied them into a fabric covered book which I titled, "Poems, Prose, Thoughts, Feelings." That was my first book of poetry. I remember feeling elated. Born a dancer, creative movement was my most active form of creative self expression, yet this other creative form (poetry) seemed to activate and nourish different parts of my brain and Being. I almost always kept a journal in which poetic pieces frequently appeared, yet it would be a number of years before I would formally attempt to write poetry. I studied intensively with a published poet when I returned to college later in life, read my poetry at a number of open mics, and for the last couple of years have been part of a poetry writer's group. These poems are from my "Papa Poetry Series," written in the months following my father's death. Some of her other poems from this series appeared in the October issue.
