Tag: coronavirus

poetry

birthday season

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birthday season

we’re so glad you’re here
your spark makes our lives glow
and since you drew your first breath
things have never been the same

we’re saying this
with candles and cards
wrapping and ribbon
doughnuts and ice cream
Sharpie on the door jamb
marking your ascent into adulthood
friends and family stopping by
to throw the floodlight of their love
squarely in your grinning face

every year we mark the miracle
that you arrived at all
(and better yet – you are amazing
and better still – we still breathe together
now)

poetry

awaiting Perseids

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awaiting Perseids

gazing up at Cygnus
winging her way westward
pushing Hercules out of the way
we learn bright new names
think of Arab princes
in towers millenia before us
seeing nearly the same shapes and colors

for as unpredictable
as a single day here is
a lifetime blinks by
with the stars in the same shapes
or nearly so
as they took
when your grandfather
was only a boy

poetry

13 in 2020

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13 in 2020

he needs a bigger bookcase
and pants that fit
a haircut strategy
and a phone of his own (eventually…)
he needs to be pulled outside
to get his blood pumping
and unify body + mind

he needs to know
when normal will resume
a timeline for his tropical dreaming
when he can next dust off that life list
how many years until his passport
will be stamped again
he needs some certainty
about where he’s going
and when

and all I know for sure is
none of us knows what’s next
but wherever he is
is even more wonderful
for his deep-feeling heart

poetry

never enough time

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never enough time

seconds flash by like
bullet trains
possibilities closed off
for what feels like forever
choosing choosing choosing
living with a lump in my throat
and an eye on the sweep
of the second hand
barely time to gather the beloveds
in a hug
and all this in a time
when our past life has slowed
to the mere vibration of
a solid
its crystal lattice holding space
for us to do something
meaningful
deliberate
intentional
with time now
and still it’s not enough
at least I haven’t made it be enough
to be able to rest

poetry

Hashkiveinu* for Jared Polis

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Hashkiveinu* for Jared Polis

putting our lives back together
one pillowcase plate and
disconnected pipe at a time

while around us
we feel America
falling apart

how strong
will the blue bruise of Boulder
stand

against El Paso and Weld’s red
in this fairly purple state
that, despite its
humbling mountains
still has its share
of selfish bastards
is still enamored of
cowboys and renegades
western liberty and
the exceptionalism
you find in open spaces

thank you, God, for
our Boulder-born governor

Grant, O Governor, that we lie down in peace,
and raise us up, our Governor, to life renewed.
Spread over us the shelter of Your peace.
Guide us with Your good counsel;
for Your Name’s sake, be our help.
Shield and shelter us
beneath the shadow of Your wings.
Defend us against enemies,
illness,
war,
famine
and sorrow.
Distance us from wrongdoing.
For You, Governor,
watch over us and deliver us.
For You, Governor,
are gracious and merciful.
Guard our going and coming,
to life and to peace evermore.

*The last stanza is an adaptation of the Hashkiveinu prayer.

poetry

unvoiced

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unvoiced

my first walk through our neighborhood
and onto the trail
we awkwardly dodge each other
out of kindness

in the beginning
I say Good morning!
but soon realize
people don’t respond
afraid of my exhalation
responsible for their own
so I begin to silently wave

never good with faces
now I’ve lost the voices
from mouths that I might know
in faces I can’t see

we become random bodies
circling around the lake
and an unexpected cold fog sets in

poetry

missing mom

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missing mom

a friend asks
where is this young raw
I want my Mommy energy
coming from?

I rewind
when did I feel this way before?

third grade
I lost her for 5 weeks
while Grandy battled cancer
endured surgery
survived (just barely)
and all we could do
was talk on the phone

maybe this is one small part
of my crying need now
the current fear of death
wrapped up with the past threat
of losing my dear grandfather
and mom
in different ways all at once
the exhaustion
of trying to be strong and good and selfless
while also just wanting to be
hugged and held
told with certainty that things will be alright
that I wasn’t losing her forever

I remember the sudden understanding
of all she did for me
the terror that it could all be gone
and me undoubtedly unable
to handle things alone
the desperate missing
of her protective physical self

we all know
I was different when she returned:
kind caring compassionate
suffused with gratitude
I learned what I had taken for granted

in our family
where mother-love is not a given
she wrapped us in love beyond question
beyond hoping for

I still don’t want to do without it
and don’t yet know
how I’ll change this time

poetry

homecoming

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homecoming

our house surrendered
we resume possession
of our regular lives
still irregular
as our neighbors friends family
stand at a distance
out on the sidewalk
masked and awkward
but it is still something
to see their bodies
through our open door
still comforting
to breathe our old house’s
singular smell –
antique timber, dust, sunshine, memory
as the day drifts down
the house welcomes us
in its own way
casting rainbows on the wall
from stained glass prisms
granting us a place to be at ease
at home again

poetry

pandemic

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pandemic

when the threat is everywhere
to everyone
at once

worrying that anyone you know
may die
at any time

knowing there’s nothing you can do
but withdraw from all those
you may soon lose

remembering to stop and feel
sun on your skin
sometimes

and give thanks that for now
you still smell roses
still taste wine

poetry

conscious breathing

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conscious breathing

Every time you breathe, you exhale some 25 sextillion (that’s 2.5 × 1022) molecules of oxygen – so many that with a day’s breathing you will in all likelihood inhale at least one molecule from the breaths of every person who has ever lived. And every person who lives from now until the sun burns out will from time to time breathe in a bit of you. At the atomic level, we are in a sense eternal.

Bill Bryson, The Body: A Guide for Occupants

breathing in the breath
of every being
that has been
fueled the same way
as despots and saints

breathing out the breath
that will become
part of every being to be
we are not so different
not so separate
not so alone

I take in courage and compassion
send out forgiveness and love
in case you need it

you –
my sons
Rosa the flycatcher patient on her nest
the bright orange wallflower feeding the fritillary
the garter snake sleeping sound under the tree roots
the man who tossed his cigarette butt on the trail today
the unmasked righteous person somewhere in my path
breathing out sentences nobody sees