White Page

White Page
(a meditation after Paula’s service)

   
Death is she’s not here any more
   only the outline of her form left in her chair gives shape to the empty she left
As an Archie Bunker, the chair is both
   memorial and wherein she yet resides,
   that not oh so holy of the not so holies,
At least until a well meaning guest or the cat sits there.

As most would I prefer to think on
   Jesus welcoming before Heaven, or
   Buddha ascending with us the karmic elscalator of transcendant planes, or
   wherever the Shinto or Zoroasters go,
   even the Agonstics nosts, for
Don’t we love to believe there is a magic behind that Rosicrucean eye?
   we can handle "the void," just not void
   we can understand "Nothingness," just not nothing

While I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
   cannot I keep my soul?
   if not in my head then where?
Will I do the spacey ghost float?
   my Father never did the spacey ghost float
   my Mother never did the spacey ghost float
  did Allen Ginsberg do the spacey Ghost float?
If he has he’s never wrote me

Death is she’s not here any more,
   only the sound of her speaking in our head gives voice to the empty she left
We cannot disbleieve that the Wizard behind the screen will grant us visiting rights, even if we don’t sincerely return with the witches broom,
   I can grasp "the empyness," just not empty
   I can write on a white page, just I cannot write ‘white page’

We delight that final croak of breathe is soul,
   grasp you that precious air!
   with cupped or clasping hands treasure that precious air!
Look upon those naked palms, No! Don’t blow on it!
  eventually, the sigh, and so our own breath blows the fantastic spirit away

Death is
   she’s not here any more