Tag: protection

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

Lorica for my soon-to-be-teenage son

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Lorica for my soon-to-be-teenage son

at Moon Creek today
I call upon the winged ones
who have fired my son’s soul
since he was small

between him and adolescent angst
I place these birds and their powers
a living shield
to keep him whole as his life shifts

I place the chickadee with his confidence
and the albatross with her ease
the junco with his acceptance
and the eagle with her righteousness

I place the Arctic tern with his strength
and the loon with her devotion
the condor with his perspective
and the kakapo with her contentment

I place the bluebird with his optimism
and the snowy owl with her resilience
the trumpeter swan with his self-esteem
and the Verreaux’s eagle-owl with her wisdom

I place the little blue penguin with his connectedness
and the wooly-necked stork with her lovingkindness
the bird-of-paradise with his persistence
and the falcon with her focus

I place the bowerbird with his artistry
and the woodpecker with her grit
the blue-winged macaw with his compassion
and the ptarmigan with her warmth

all these memories and powers
I place between my sweet son
and all darkness
all despair

between his kind, trusting heart
and all forms of doubt
between gentleness
and the hard world

at Moon Creek today
I gather all these wonders
to encircle him
with their soft strong wings

to sing to him in the dark
that is not yet dawn
to remind him what a gift it is
to be here in the wide world

where hummingbirds survive hurricanes
and plovers calm crocodiles
with their grace beside him and within him
I send him out into the world

trusting he will be true
to who he is
what he loves
and what he stands and kneels for

poetry

thank you, Maker Table Makers

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thank you, Maker Table Makers

my children make me a picture
of what’s worth protecting
but they miss themselves

moments later there they are
spitting with the effort
required to stay afloat

here I will build
a wall of light around them
a fiery band of love
that they can always call home:

whatever they do is enough
whoever they are, they’re loved

poetry

Bill’s Lorica

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While my dad was dying I felt I needed the strength of a lorica to protect me emotionally. I intended to write it before I went to see him in the hospital in Minnesota, but somehow I didn’t get to it. On the flight home, I started to write a lorica, but it ended up being for him, not me. I wrote one draft and started copying out a second, and then we were on the ground. I put it aside and rediscovered it today. St. Patrick used his lorica to transform into a deer to avoid attack.

Bill’s Lorica

in the sparkling northwoods blue-green
today we gather
warmth of the longtime sun
to make a blanket for your bones
thick purple-brown twining grape vines
to knit a secret room of shade
a closed space without fear
to lie a long body down
to let go the burden of being upright

here in the crushed green
of fiddlehead and jewelweed
trilliums silently go crimson
binding our carmine blood
and this bit of wood

in the still pulpit, jack sits,
a silent preacher with nothing left to judge
only to witness you rest
accepting hard scars that will turn to moss
your angular bones to be rounded with time

we bring the pull of purple magnetite
the charged ions/counterbalance
positive/negative canceled/reconciled

we gather the echo in the steep shale walls
leaves written with pressure in time’s patient book
shut now

we call on the grosbeak’s brilliant rose-petal stained breast
his love sung not said

we call upon the restless waves
smoothing the past
readying the sunset canvas
curving to calm in a still quiet bay

and up here in the buoyant cumulus fields
today we weave all these ragged fragments together
a last quilt of protection
you pull to your chin

then you split down the middle
and turn to deer
as the jester’s gavel drops
on the hours of needing
to be more