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
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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Still

What visits me today?
A lullaby in baritone
and funny bits of song,
dreadful jokes
in nuanced tones,
bearded bristle, paired
with a million kisses,
all too human shoulders
I thought and hoped
were everlasting granite,
long held friendships both
a gift and an example,
the pungent scent of cuban leaf
lit anywhere but in the house,
a feel for speed
and open road,
the skies he loved
and flew so well,
laughter, books and music
with the color, light and form
he looked at every day,
these brought him peace,
the certainty of love
from open eyes,
straight told advice,
his caring deep,
his spirit so ingrained,
that now, whenever
need is great
I conjure loving echoes
of an imperfect
perfect father,
to see me through
the dark.

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Nine years ago today, my father died at 89, suddenly, but blessedly not alone, my sister was with him. His legend looms large in our lives, to quote a beatle, and I know we all miss him, need him, still and always.