For those who have fallen
as the white wings of death
have come to their bedside
and spread their cushy wings
around their lifeless bodies
and took them to the room upstairs,
fit for Kings and paupers,
saints and thieves alike,
where the ranks of all
human-kind are blended into one
made precious by their falling,

their landing on a far away isle
where love is the controlling tone,
where breathing is a freedom song,
a casting into the skies of sacred air,
a pure part of the abyss, from a
scented lung of roses and life,
an exoneration from the
prison of the dreadful disease.

To the earthbound mourners
who had to let him go alone;
his lungs are now
more fit than yours,
filled with the purest
of the pure air,
the breath of heaven
in a place also reserved
for you in time.

His nightly falling is now
in the hands of the Almighty,
the one to comfort you
on your morning mourning,
in sympathy for you
about your fear of death.


Author Bio:
​Robert Martin's writings have been published in Mature Years, Alive Now, Terror House Magazine, Wilderness House Literary Journal, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, and Literary Juice. Robert has won two Faith & Hope awards, and published two chapbooks. His main writing influence is Kahlil Gibran.

I imagine an astronomer
On a planet light years away
From this raggedy Earth
Observing our comings and goings
As a microbiologist
Would view the activity
Within a cell,
And curious about what the purpose
Of all the fevered movement
Might be about.
I imagine that astronomer
Glued to her telescope
And noticing one day
That the breakneck pace of life 
Upon the once-bustling tiny orb
Has diminished dramatically
And many areas formerly jam-packed
And percolating
With a kind of unconstrained vitality 
Have become virtually empty 
And still.
I imagine the astronomer
Conferring with her colleagues
For help in puzzling out 
The sudden cessation. 
Some hypothesize
That she is witnessing the death 
Of a distant world.
Others suggest it is a metabolic pause
Necessary in order to recalibrate
And re-integrate all systems
To keep everything humming nicely along.
The astronomer herself
Is able to arrive at no conclusions
But she remains at her telescope
Absorbed by what she supposes
Could be a life-or-death drama
Taking place in that faraway world
Yet is to her
Simply an intriguing astronomical anomaly
Occurring long, long ago
And far, far away.
 

Author Bio:
Buff Whitman-Bradley and his wife Cynthia are relying on digital technology to keep in touch with their young grand daughters, but ache to be able to romp in the woods with them again. Buff's poems have appeared and many print and online journals. His latest book is "Crows with Bad Writing." He podcasts poems reflecting on aging, memory and mortality at thirdactpoems.podbean.com This poem expresses the uncertainty many feel about the ultimate outcome of the current crisis -- and future ones.