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 can’t bear to kill
and must evict.
The one too many ones,
the wrong kind of spider.
A waving scuttler brings on
a rush to scoop up 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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Connection

In song, music puts
its hands around my heart.
My words think tears
are a puddle to splash
through shoeless.
Color often stops my breath,
and I am held its willing
prisoner. A sudden memory
might need release.
Any of these call up joy
or tears, and I don’t mind.
When the signal comes
they might glide to me
in a waltz, or whirl up
on the skirts
of a wild mazurka.
Better yet, ride in
on the smoothness
of an alto sax.