Life With Horace

poetry & essays

Category Archives: life up here


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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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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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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.


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When the fog rolled in

Every time I came back
it was to stand surrounded
by the square front hall
oak and lemon smelling

Metal shaded lamps
to draw the eye at night
Orange tiger lilies bracketing
moss glazed fire place tiles

The Parlor door open
direct afternoon light
chased by muffled gray
on humid summer days

The Green Painting waiting
open armed on the far wall
above a crack lacquered
roll top desk

It always took me further
into its own dream world
of fog, a stream dividing
the marsh edge to edge

The blackened green
of pine and cypress arms
rooted in celadon grass
no bump elbowed woods

The artist had watched
smiling when my grandmother
first saw the canvas and
took it wet from the easel

Thanks tossed back
she walked out the door
into the mist blocked morning
off home to hang it for me


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The Angle of Later Light

It’s my life up to now
with its camp follower memories
thirsty for acknowledgement
wanting to do their chorus line kicks
before time runs out
senses ambushed by everything

It does not take much does it                                    
a lemon hiding its sharp tongue
in a cheerful skin but once married
to sugar or butter is a
blanket of surprises

A remembered tomato eaten
seconds off the vine
warm in the hot sun
Socks pulled onto cold feet
the quick bliss of warmth
a soft second skin

The cut and scrape of a
hand turned can opener
to reveal humble tuna
The deep heart of color
in an emerald

Honey carrying its own
geography to the tongue
A window open to the
dense night of a city summer                                    
and a mockingbird sings
near the fountain steps
I imagine it a nightingale

Movies in childhood
red and gold palaces of escape
sitting in the dark
impatient for the approaching
light and color and sound
calling from the screen

The angle of later light
the heart’s golden hour
slowly pressed into
star filled night

________________________________________
Image copyright © 2023 Kate Rantilla, All Rights Reserved.


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Heron’s Feet

Bogs and wetlands are old familiars
plant rot water brown as tea
suck mouthed mud waiting for the careless
but only an oddity where the snappers live
if you know where to put your feet
and they will, these places
send energy snaking through the blood
to shoot sparklers from your fingers
and run circles around
your soul’s shoulders
as you wait for the heron
to drop down
from its nest
to fish