future perfect continuous tense

I became an orphan
at sixty
does that make it less sad
the last vestige of that nucleus beginning
cut away
parents gone
one brother dead
the other surrounded by his own bewildering
offspring
 
here I am
no longer tied to perfunctory obligations
or old habits
whose only responsibility
is to my
self
 
to open my eyes
each day
stretch open the years
and see just what it is
I’m made of

Archer Paper Goods

It was just one of those little things
I missed in that year
of solitude and caution
where whistling past the grave yard
I knew there were bigger things
to wish for
to hope for
to pray for
When boxes of latex gloves, bleach wipes,
sanitizers
were stored and used on every
piece of mail,
can of food,
light switch,
door knob
shoe,
counter,
steering wheel
When touching
anything
caused me to spring back in horror
and rush to wash
again and again
and again
 
But today
over a year later
masked, vaccinated, at ease
the beautiful shop beckoned
and I fulfilled that little wish
to smell the candles
and touch beautiful things
just like it was a normal day

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