Last Dog

 
I read
A Question of Time by Kathleen A. Dale
and wonder if he is Last Dog
this small warm body snuggled against my hip
safe and snoozing
after a days ordeal at the vet office
where injections were given
and instructions read
but there is no quick relief
for his suffering
he looks to me for comfort
and I weep in grief
for our parting
many years in the future
only a question of time

I was very moved by this poem posted by Rattle Magazine today,https://www.rattle.com/a-question-of-time-by-kathleen-a-dale/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+rattle%2FCNOS+%28Rattle%3A+Poetry+for+the+21st+Century%29

fence bed

laid bare, with jutting rocks exposed

only soil left, tilled and furrowed

detritus of years neglected

laced with vines and broken glass

bits of crockery and plastic wheels

of toy trucks long gone

vanquished by Spring’s lengthening hours

rake, shovel and glove

the fence bed will be softened by mulch

and hydrangeas

its poverty now enriched with sweat

and composted manure

stigmata

I dream of roses blooming

Red, so deeply perfumed,

heady with fragrant spice.

Their petals bleed across my chest,

stigmata of blood soft petals

pooling into rivers deep and wide, so wide

I lose the receding shore

until the ocean draws closer

and I inhale sticky salt air

filled with the scent of roses,

drowning pools of bloom

earth day 2021

 
 
the seeming randomness of so many things
makes it feel as though chaos and chance
are the only demi-gods in the revolving door
pitching ideas and sending up trial balloons
into ether and sky and hearts and minds
but we all see patterns of creation sparked
by vernal resurrection that can only be
a divine hand painting the hillsides in green
and delicate violet

whats for dinner

lying on the old sofa in the screened porch

my view is of the tree tops

bold black strokes of a calligraphers pen

drawing thick trunks and long limbs

across a carolina blue sky

filled in with sponged leaf and green buds

interrupted by fat chenille bumbles bouncing

against the screen

and the fussing of wren parents going on about whose turn it is

to feed the hungry littles

soft spring breezes from an april I’ve never lived

in my previous lives rocks me gently in this spacious afternoon

but now its five o’clock and the rumble of a late day train

shakes me from this reverie as the small dog tunes

to the trains whistling call

and I rise to rummage through the pantry

for the makings of the evening dinner

bread dough

I was raised in a series of kitchens

the first small

where the wall color would change

on whim and boredom

with a screen door pushed through

by a bird dog’s head

who would whine for leavings

at the babies table

the second

within tang of the paper mill

and fragrant of biscuits

vinegar beans and ham

where coffee was strong but mellowed by cream

and heaping spoonfuls of sugar

the third

tall ceilinged and linoleumed

holding sweating green glass jars filled with crescent melon moons

with a pantry bearing big reds

and red ants

that poured from the cereal box

fourth a kitchen

of koolaid and party fare

where the liquor cabinet was well stocked

and well used

and the floor, cork and scuffed

hard by mary janes and chasing dogs

next

open and old

where a chicken would lay

her egg on the window sill

and peck her greeting each morning

and the floored rolled down hill

then

a kitchen made of sticks

gathered from a pack rats horde

painted hunter green

with windows where the lame doe

would peer nightly

big eyed

now

a kitchen of wandering light

and walls of pear and faded aquamarine

where at last

it is the last

to see dough rise in the morning

with the sun

and joy with the moon rise

at night