CREEK ROAD GANG
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Zea Ginsburg Piver:
3 Poems from
the Papa Poetry Series
copyright 2009
Papa
Don’t go,
I cry inside.
Yet I know
I mustn’t cling,
I mustn’t beg
for it’s your time
to journey --
past bright suns, thru
imperceptible portals,
to the center of
some vast universe.
Engulfed by sorrow
I ache
to call you back
but realize there are
no returns from
such departures.
Your time has come
to pass into serene,
unseen places.
So I open my heart,
feel your formlessness,
try to let go…
But, no one ever
showed me how
to say farewell
forever.
You’d been on this earth every single day since I was born
and walked with me each day, from one side of the planet or the other.
It can’t be your body walks on this planet with me no more,
and distance is now irrelevant, as only your nonexistence remains…
How will I remember, how will I learn to walk
without you walking beside me…nearby…never far?
Walk with me, Papa, one more time through the woods!
You were my very first walking partner –
loving nature, and movement in legs and lungs, as much as I.
Who will walk with me now, and ponder the deep existential questions
while tending to my daughter-heart, as you would? It’s not possible!
Walk with me, Papa, please, one more time, through the woods.
Orphan
It’s my birthday
and you don’t call
to set the time
to celebrate with me.
Forty-four birthdays with you,
one without you.
Who will wine and dine me,
share carrot cake?
Who will remember
September 6, 1964
St. Mary’s Paddington Hospital,
London, England?
A sacred day,
a birth day
your first child,
a daughter.
I am,
without you, Dad,
orphaned today,
my birthday.
Don’t go,
I cry inside.
Yet I know
I mustn’t cling,
I mustn’t beg
for it’s your time
to journey --
past bright suns, thru
imperceptible portals,
to the center of
some vast universe.
Engulfed by sorrow
I ache
to call you back
but realize there are
no returns from
such departures.
Your time has come
to pass into serene,
unseen places.
So I open my heart,
feel your formlessness,
try to let go…
But, no one ever
showed me how
to say farewell
forever.
Walk with Me
You’d been on this earth every single day since I was born
and walked with me each day, from one side of the planet or the other.
It can’t be your body walks on this planet with me no more,
and distance is now irrelevant, as only your nonexistence remains…
How will I remember, how will I learn to walk
without you walking beside me…nearby…never far?
Walk with me, Papa, one more time through the woods!
You were my very first walking partner –
loving nature, and movement in legs and lungs, as much as I.
Who will walk with me now, and ponder the deep existential questions
while tending to my daughter-heart, as you would? It’s not possible!
Walk with me, Papa, please, one more time, through the woods.
Orphan
It’s my birthday
and you don’t call
to set the time
to celebrate with me.
Forty-four birthdays with you,
one without you.
Who will wine and dine me,
share carrot cake?
Who will remember
September 6, 1964
St. Mary’s Paddington Hospital,
London, England?
A sacred day,
a birth day
your first child,
a daughter.
I am,
without you, Dad,
orphaned today,
my birthday.
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. See the October issue for Part 1 of the series, and November issue for Part 2.
