Life With Horace

poetry & essays


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Floaters

Parachutes for certain bugs
I can’t bear to kill.
The one too many ones
the wrong kind of spider
the waving scuttlers.
The latest ugly
makes its entrance,
bringing on a rush
to scoop up elbowed legs
and angled hairy parts, 
run the mercy packet to the door,
wanting to fling, instead just letting go,
the tissue wrapped passenger
floating down to land
on a bed of violet leaves.  

 

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The right kind of spiders? Thin bodied long-legged spiders that look like Charlotte. 


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The Morgan

It could have been
a silver mercury portrait,
but a horse appeared
displacing stiff poses,
mane flying, neck muscles
bunched in effort,
galloping through
a glimpse of the past.

 

 


Audio: Read by the author.


____________________________
A marvelous photo of a Morgan mare by the photographer Deborah Glessner brought up the last two lines of the poem. 


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The right note

Tomorrow might have been fifty-two,
not just thirteen since thirty-nine.
The day, aligned with family and gratitude,
always reflected joy, the heat of our love
folded into stuffing.
The missing of him has gotten harder,
but it seems he knows. I came upon
the sound of his small gasp,
that wrapped me up each time
in beauty gauze, when finally ready
I presented myself to his gaze
before our evenings out.
Deliciousness itself, just knowing
that he would, when I did,
that he always meant it.
And I can smile now, the memory
a pitch perfect gift.

 

 


Audio: Read by the author.