Life With Horace

poetry & essays

Category Archives: poetry


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let out the old

it is gone by,
a twelve-month,
reasons to celebrate
layered with
cautionary images
and sorrow
as is only fair,
intimate flashes,
discovery,
even to growth,
achingly rich
creative elation,
a dog tail’s broad sweep
of the months,
days racing like
mountain clouds,
slipping away
until now,
flinging solstice
behind us,
finding more light,
we are at the top
of the grade,
minds straining
to cross the divide
into the new,
full of impossible
possibility

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my southern scottish grandmother always brought in the new year with every light on in the house, the front door flung wide, and us that were there “letting out the old and letting in the new”, punch cups of egg nog in hand. the egg nog was her family’s recipe, so full of rum and brandy (I still dilute it with cream or milk) that those who helped her make it always ran the risk of intoxication from the fumes!


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Night Silence

In this old house
the winter night
is many things,
but not deep quiet,
never utter stillness,
both conceits of
humans in retreat.
With us at rest
it moves and breathes
in darkness.
Sighing wood and stone,
the whine and snore of dogs
feet twitching gently
as they dream,
Small colonies of mice
sensed more than heard,
Remnant memories
within its walls
merge with the energy
of word and color
line and shape,
collected and held close
to make this much loved place.
And so I head for bed
the last light gone,
leaving the plants looking out
at the night
to watch the snow fall.


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speaking of gratitude

in early morning dark
approaching solstice,
thoughts clearing slowly,
a morning mist, awareness
spurs coherent thought
of thanks
for yet another day
to find myself alive,
no matter winter ice,
thoughts left over
and undone tasks,
certain that
joy will always rise
behind the pines
with the sun if asked,
serenity will be granted
if prayed for, even in
an unexpected form,
and now, prepared,
my soul is glad
to greet the sun

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this morning’s freezing rain reminds me to be grateful nevertheless, a bit perverse I suppose. the roosting birds to the left are mourning/morning doves. 18 days to the solstice!


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aftermath

I kick the football yet again,
choosing to forget
the inevitable,
that it will be snatched
at the last moment
and send me tumbling
end over end through blankness,
wailing, furious, shedding illusions
like jagged sparkler beams,
crash landing, spent,
in a heap of dim regret.
but, then I do get up,
fortitude my ally,
defiant, standing straight,
determined to survive,
and run toward the garden of my soul,
where love and self forgiveness thrive,
to heal, and not look back

tree in the pasture, Jon Katz 2014


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Dancer in the mist

I stand alone, counting time
wrapped in the kiss of fog
sensing but not seeing
others of my kind
waiting, shouldered, upright
at the edges of this pasture

I dream in solitude, aching
for the touch of other roots
however faint, to feel
earth’s water flow to
reaching deep dug tendrils
of my kindred in the woods

I dance in secret, moving
with prevailing winds
my branching shape their echo
but in summer dark or autumn mist
the sounds of crickets, calls of flying geese
lend their beat to summon ecstasy
as I sway until the dawn

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The tree in this photo seemed to move in place.
Photograph by Jon Katz, copyright © 2014,
used with permission.


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early quiet

in the early dark
my thoughts come to life,
slowly staggering from
their nest of dreams
to touch my heart,
stretching catlike,
looking for a sun
that is not there yet,
zig zag from long habit,
free to catch whatever
crumbs of memory or hope
lie in their path,
slowly reaching knowledge
of the day, moments
just ahead, moving through
the sleeping house by rote,
not yet ready
for the coming meld,
welcoming the warmth
that movement brings,
anticipating coffee,
craving music, upping tempo,
now in gear, they join me
to rejoice in this new day,
remember gratitude


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remnant treasures

they are lanterns
in approaching dark,
glowing shocks
of gold or bronze
out in our woods
where ferns lie routed,
wildflower remnants gone,
sucked back into earth
preparing for its sleep

lithe, lit from within
when seen up close,
winglike branches reach
in gently gilded layers,
some will hold this pose
their clinging leaves an echo,
sentries through the winter,
witness to the memory of green,
beautiful in snow

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color is now left to the beeches here. they are having a spectacular season.


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sharing space

my mind has come to see
there is no yin
without its yang,
wherever I am now,
my form and spirit
are surrounded by the fabric
of that place and moment,
feeling solitary, sovereign,
yet part of nature’s
warp and weft.
today, rushing, late,
I stay departure
for a moment’s glance,
a look into bright sun,
finding clouds
just above the trees,
moving fast as waves
propelled by whooshing wind
pitched high, accompanied
by constant leaf vibrato.
I have a sudden sense
of place reversed.
is all this truly
passing over us
or are we sailing
upside down on
pulsing ocean white caps,
tree sails steering us
toward the sun?

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I am grateful for many things in my life, especially for the thoughts that come when my mind is free to wander and wonder.


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feasting on ferns

my eyes and heart
are drunk, replete
with shape and color
through the woods,
an honor guard
along our path,
by wetland neighbors,
freshet pools,
and roadside banks

tender fiddle hairs,
silver webbing over
curling celadon,
opening to graceful sweeps,
full green in summer,
waltzing, dipping in
the woody understory

the turn to fall is quiet,
flat headed fronds on stems
in bronze and rust
lead the march to
lush chrome gold,
an ostrich carpet
thrown across dark woods

the smallest feathered shapes
move to a quiet fade,
color ebbing slowly
as leaves and needles drop,
blanketing these remnant
bits of light and warmth

fortified again


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small voyagers

headed home at sunset
glancing west
to rosy afterglow, and
wetland maples
just turned scarlet,
I catch movement
just above my head

a flock speeds south
so few in number,
dark against the sky,
all dips and earnest flutter
seeking evening safety,
respite from their
star imprinted
journey south

my heart clenching, driving on
I whisper through my soul
to theirs, safe travels,
fly to sun and blooms,
leave advancing winter
here with us
but please return
with earth’s retilt,
we need you back again
to warm
our frozen hearts

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seeing very small birds flying south brings me worry for their safety, their migration a sure sign that another season of warmth and light is coming to a close.