Life With Horace

poetry & essays

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Parachutes for certain bugs
I can’t bear to kill.
The one too many ones
the wrong kind of spider
the waving scuttlers.
The latest ugly
makes its entrance,
bringing on a rush
to scoop up elbowed legs
and angled hairy parts, 
run the mercy packet to the door,
wanting to fling, instead just letting go,
the tissue wrapped passenger
floating down to land
on a bed of violet leaves.  


The right kind of spiders? Thin bodied long-legged spiders that look like Charlotte. 



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.

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.