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.
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
Remembrance waits in ambush
for that first sidelong glance at your face
Watching from the wall or pool of lamplight
at one end of our dark blue sofa
And you wake me in the empty black
even though I felt you as my mind dove deep to rest
Audio: Read by the author.
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.
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.
A mourning dove in my apple tree
looks through the window
its message meant to prod
sun shrinks as the cold returns
woods maple tops spike leafless now
bronze oaks and candle beech stand guard
water lilies sink into the pond again
a scooped out moon brings frost
bears already denned up the hill
not quite past time for seeds but hurry
or jays will bring their beaks
I was convinced she would never leave
even though the truth of it
ran alongside faster
as she slowed
in the end a quiet moment
took the comfort of her large dog self
and tucked it in the sky
now her gaze is a soft kiss on clear nights
when the stars are watching
________________________________
For my Newfie Aggie
July 23 2009 – August 28, 2021
Birds sing of delight
night rain has paid a visit
earth is drinking deep
Opening the door I lean
to smell the subtle trail of spring
it is the time of violet night
of fading monochrome
when the other half of my heart
beats in echo time
slipping through the layers
of descending dark
to leave its kiss
The rain has borne fruit
green retakes us overnight
color close behind
Stars begin to drop into
the growing dark of a clear night sky
as I come down the mountain
to our woods, the path familiar
my feet sure in waning light
I went up alone craving you
the burn cleared granite
comfort warm at sunset, words
escaping into the rising drafts
as song, wait for me
I will be there given time
blowing wind comes fast
scraping at the full moon’s light
spring is not here yet
Life With Horace 