Life With Horace

poetry & essays


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Floaters

High summer in an old house
occupied by an army of visiting bugs,
brings dreams of parachutes
for those I must evict
The one too many ones,
the wrong kind of spider
A waving scuttler scooped up,
all elbowed legs and angled hairy parts 
Run the mercy packet to the door,
release the tissue wrapped passenger
and watch it float down to sanctuary
on a bed of violet leaves 

 

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A very old house. In the winter we have critters. Summer brings the bugs 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.


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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.
Aligned with family and gratitude,
The day 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.