Life With Horace

poetry & essays

Category Archives: life up here


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dance of the jays

the clustered blues
have come to feed,
loud, gorgeous
wing of seven,
flying in with
unexpected grace,
slight hesitation in
each landing on a limb,
the power of their wings
allowing float.

the vision of
a singleton,
movement caught
up in the tree
but without sense of
pattern, common trait,
while with the whole, it is
nature making dance
to catch the eye.

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our feeders draw large clusters of particular birds, along with the ones and twos and threes of others. the grace of the jays in the apple tree caught my eye.


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Nana’s birthday surprise for YaYa

A few years ago my daughter and her family were living in Hawaii. My then 6 year old granddaughter YaYa couldn’t hear enough about all the snow we had in New Hampshire. A true snow child. My answer was to send her snowballs for her early February birthday.

The two Fedex ladies near the Manchester airport didn’t bat an eyelash when I said the styrofoam steaks box packed with newspaper and dry ice needed to go overnight to Hawaii. They would get it there. I didn’t say what needed to stay frozen, and they didn’t stop to wonder until it was all packed in a big cardboard box full of packing peanuts. There were many forms to fill out and lots of ‘Hazardous Contents’ stickers. It is a tricky thing to ship something packed in dry ice by plane.

When they finally did ask I confessed to sending snow to my granddaughter for her birthday. They were simultaneously horrified (it was not cheap) and charmed.

The surprise came off perfectly. YaYa was thrilled with her snowballs. As were her classmates the next day when the first snow many of them had ever seen were part of show and tell.

© 2014 KH Rantilla. all rights reserved.


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smaller pleasures

a dropped verbena leaf
is rubbed to bring the scent
of summer’s idle moments.
my kitchen window
frames a silver hand
that holds an instant’s light.
the soft delighted snorts
of dogs in greeting
as the day begins.
and at the kitchen door
I sip from morning’s cup
grateful for another rising sun.


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tess

bright eyes watching
so much energy
open joy
loving creature
certain of the
care and patience
that surround her
born for running
and she does
leaping, bounding
through the trees
a blur of white
with red bandanna
sailing over
the high snow bank
at woods edge
unrestrained
but fast returning
to the simpler path
no hesitation
the voice of love
is calling

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written during a visit to a friend in North Bennington, Vermont, where I finally got to meet her wonderful young Llewellin Setter, Tess.


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Soul tending

This seems the time
to tend one’s soul,
not just resolve
but looking out
and seeing in,
as dark recedes
and light is growing
in the mind
and to the eye

Why does the spirit
need a reset?
Dug, then redug
like a garden,
soil turned up
to meet the light

The answer lies in
life’s renewal
making fertile
that inside us,
ready to be open
and receive
the heady rush
of spring


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The false green

With winter off its rails
a whiplash melt from ice
lays the lawn bare
its blades now gold
and fledgling green
looking much like march grass
foretelling sun warmed birthing
An accidental color
it fools the eye and heart
This is not caesar’s month
the cold and snow of janus
will reclaim their space
until the sun extends its reach
into the soil, and pulls spring up


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Down to the trees

This old house sits well below
Monadnock’s western arm,
embraced by friendly woods
above a part-time stream,
where sunrise is a straggler
with extra feet to climb.
In winter, light leaves fast
East Hill, across the pond,
brings sunset much too soon,
but night time is a glory, with
no clouds or dimming light
the brilliant heavens send us
our reward, a rain of stars
down to the trees.


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Everyday pleasures

At the piano I watch small fingers make their music so determined so well done the joy in her eyes is in my heart joking laughter with her brother so much taller than the last time more movies made and volumes read a classroom visit sticky hands and icing gingerbread embellished a dog asleep in sunlight the rhythm of lives cherished and held close in memory to be enriched once more

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This prose poem was written as I read about the events in the lives of two very dear members of an online creative group I belong to. it is posted in recognition of profound love and loss, and my abiding gratitude for the love of my family, as we gather together this week.


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The growing point

Upright still sentry
outlier for the world beneath
a winter effigy belying spring’s next promise
it stands in ice and snow

A window sill
bright warmth and light
protects a tender shoot
fresh green against
the gray and silver backdrop
green lava moving upward

My own such point
is not so clearly seen or felt
a junction of my spirit
trust and will reagents for the heady mix
that grows joy in my soul

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A poem for a winter afternoon, as the days draw down to the solstice.


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The Stuffing Bowl

Once spied up on a dusty shelf
and brought home as a prize
the stuffing bowl sits quiet
holding memory in its curve
The sisterhood of early rising cooks
assembling the ingredients
of timeless celebrations
ingatherings of family and friends
all linked by common filament
It waits for careful hands
to lift it down and fill its heart again
with love and thankfulness

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My sister Annie and I have always called each other on Thanksgiving morning, up early, cooking.