Zea Ginsburg Piver:

From the Papa Poetry Series: Your Death

Buddhist Nun Blessing

We heard Sister Clair

might stop by

to see you

on her return

from a peace mission

in Tibet.

Hours before you die

at your bedside,

candles lit,

I hold your hand,

meditate on your

slow, raspy breaths

like an apparition -

a tranquil, fluid aura -

she appears

soft pink shaven head,

turquoise-blue eyes,

monk’s white robe.

She waits respectfully

at entrance,

her awakened eyes

ask;

may I come in?

I nod yes.

She studies you, your surroundings:

images of Gandhi in meditation,

Krishna on hand-painted silk,

Rabbi ben Zakkai,

Pushkin,

smiling grandchildren.

Hands in prayer pose

she begins to bow,

bows deeply,

repeatedly,

from the waist,

whispers;

a great soul,

a great, great soul,

your father!

She beats her hand drum,

chants Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo,

her prayer for peace.

She drums,

she chants,

she bows. I think of

my atheist-pacifist father,

telling me

in recent months:

“I have been studying

Tibetan Buddhism.

Buddhists believe,

as I do, everything is

interconnected, interrelated,

even the minds of living beings.

Buddha said,

if the minds

of living beings

are at peace,

the world will be at peace.

I am at peace.”

Sister Clair

takes my hands,

smiles into my heart,

departs -

leaving “last rites”

celebrated.

(In honor of your 2^nd Yarzheit 11.14)

From the Papa Poetry Series: Your Death

Ovens

 

In car

Behind hearse

En route to oldest cemetery

In Massachusetts where

Crematorium

Waits

 

You

Cloaked

In white Jewish shroud

In cardboard box

To be incinerated

On arrival

 

November’s

Sky cool blue

Hearse door opens

Cold body wheeled

To inner sanctum

I follow

 

Two burly men smeared

With sweat and soot

Stare

One white candle

I light in your honor

Burns

 

Your feet point toward ovens

I tell myself

It’s not like the ovens

Of Auschwitz

Cremation was

Your wish

 

I chant my

Hindu mantra

Rest note by your heart

Offer ripe fruit

Red wine

Dark chocolate

 

The men motion

Step back as

They yank open

Mouth of ogre

Intent to swallow

Then turn you to dust

 

My body melts open  

My full eyes close

Only to see flickers

Of your smiling face

A euphoric beam

Avowing

 

Thank you

Thank you for bringing me

To this place

You have done all that

I’ve asked of you

Thank you

 

Oven door slams

Above smokestack

Outside

A raven soars

Calls three times

 

Disappears

(for your 85^th birthday)

From the Papa Poetry Series: Remembering

 

Lament: Time Heals?

 

 

Silver-sliver remains

rest in urn

at brother’s house.

 

For a year I

said Kaddish daily --

now what?

 

I no longer mark

days or weeks like

the age of a newborn.

 

Two years pass;

I ache at absence

of our deep discourse.

 

Days tick,

my own mortality

smacks me in the face,

 

thankfully, you are at peace.

Biographical Note: Zea lives with one husband, one son, one dog, and one cat, across one old stone bridge, snuggled against one flora-bathed hill, on one wild, unruly creek where one resplendent great blue heron lands when the creek is high and fish are abundant. Zea, an avid journal writer since childhood, began noticing poetic elements amidst her journal writing when she wrote prolifically as a brooding adolescent. In returning to college in later years she studied poetry formally with an accomplished and published poet. She has read her work at a variety of poetry open mics, and has been part of a weekly poetry writer's group for a number of years. A good many of her recent works are part of her "Papa Poetry Series" which began to evolve following her father's sudden death in 2008. See Author Index for Poetry for more of Zea's work.