Life With Horace

poetry & essays


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Looking out

It is black and silent
out the kitchen window
I catch the moon sidling
through my woods
a haloed disc of rising light
moving tree to tree
a hundred candles waltzing
Below her satin passage
that darkness is a wall
the sounds of incidental
mountain life restrained
Indoors it’s warm, and bright
Wrapped in a feather light cloak
of old house small noises
I settle in to wait
for morning







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About singing

I. Corpus Musicorum

To sing with friends
brings joy to those who hear us
But shoulder to shoulder
we who give voice have
earned the greater gift
To stand inside
a living body of music
connected by
sublime resonance

II. The Thrum

Chords reach in to finger
my waiting bones
sometimes as undulating touch
threads of fog with no barriers
gently casual hands on shoulders
or arms outstretched
announcing their intentions
patient for response

Other notes roar by
on mighty gilt chariots
hordes of them racing
powerful as lama horns
straight to the echo rooms
of my open heart
until their wake
folds me into beauty

Audio: Read by the author.


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Upright words for now

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times ~ Dickens.

Dirk Bogarde, my favorite Sidney Carton,
said it with eyes shining in the dark
Words now reduced to threads
at the edge of a frayed cliche
If only words could
cure the world as easily
as pull the wool over our eyes
If widdershins could disperse oil spills
or brillig or gyre could hoist a lance
to run neatly through the heart of hate
That kind of thing
Words for the worst of times.

Audio: Read by the author.


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Walzerabend

Tonight there was, like then
a gilded room with
two grand staircases
this one on a tv screen
the swish of silk and gardenias
turning through candlelight
time waiting a beat
for their smiles to sail by
And you were gone
my dearest friend,
when I wanted us to
remind each other of
waltzing with our beaux
dark haired young blades
in decorations and tails
before you all began
to leave, one by one
and me alone to remember
for you

For Lisa Young Donely


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Longing and the Ashokan Farewell

Wordless notes at parting
that have always brought tears
Gathered by a seer whose side job
is dowsing a Scottish lament
A violin strung mourning aid
and quiet picked guitar
prompted shards of loss
to call me kin
Even with young children then
and a loving life all the dogs
still alive, the Celt in me
keened for another’s loss
Yesterday it barred the way
asking to be heard again
And not wanting a scolding
from my highland ghosts
I stood aside and cried
for that younger life
Of a hand laid soft on
his shoulder as I passed by
Or his kiss on my wrist
Not willing to waste
incidental moments
Grateful for those times
and the conjures of old
hands on strings
As the world mourns
and I reach for
the comfort of my dogs

Audio: Read by the author.


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Non pareil

With thanks to M.F.K. Fisher

The kitchen basket is almost empty
a single red tomato moated with sunlight 
waits for my touch
 
Time is short, blooms of mold 
will soon claim it and I don’t want to lose
this object of my tongue’s lust

Perfectly ripe, its sleek skin 
hints at a tantalizing split 
ignored for now

and I dismiss the temptation to ravish
without finesse, preferring
the small pleasures of anticipation

So, slices fanned onto a blue moroccan plate
dressed in a squeeze of lemon, green olive oil
and basil slivers

become lunchtime’s non pareil
Each piece a grapeshot burst against my lips
already parted in pleasure

Originally published on 1/8/2021; reposted with small edits.


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Upriver

I swam once in the Thames
well away from London
almost to Oxford
a country river
the currents sluggish
the summer water warm
no eels in the mud
sun baked towels to dry off with
no whitecaps or jellyfish
no chance of sharks
everything green and civilized
Used to the toe deep cold
and hot sand
of our ocean beach
I missed the goose bumps
we wore home to lunch

Audio: Read by the author.


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Star Map

In summer when the moon was gone
we could walk the gravel road
down to the cottage in starlight
pupils cranked wide, sure footed,     
its dips and curves mapped
in our atlas of collective memory
Listening more than we spoke
to show late feeding rabbits
we meant no harm
Small pops of crunching shale
telltales of our soft passage
to great horned owls and foxes
All of us on high alert
for ambling skunks
hunting grubs in upturned moss
Not knowing then
those moonless descents
would be the safest dark
we would ever know


Audio: Read by the author.