Life With Horace

poetry & essays

Category Archives: poetry

the dogs on the ferny path 9-17-14


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the presence of gifts

my list is long today
and gratitude a living thing,
with thanks this morning
I begin again,
and marvel at the magic of
this year so richly lived.
strong arms of love
encircling the night,
to hold my spirit close and safe.
the gift of children,
essence of my soul alive
in generations made from love.
sisters, brothers, cousins
now become the elders
drawing closer, wisdom’s harvest.
friends of many years
and those more newly met
all precious links
to memory and heart

a time of growth,
and unexpected joy
tapped from an unseen well,
welcome, cherished, fed
by wonder, Open eyes,
encouragement and friendship,
kindred links though loose,
their potency holds true.
connection with
things seen and not,
humbled by belief at last,
feeling nature’s voice
run through my blood,
trying for acceptance
of the path I follow,
learning from the way behind,
with kinder eyes
and gentler thought
for my mis-steps.
facing out to grasp
with ready hands
this miracle
that is my life

__________________________
birthdays have always held magic for me. today is no exception. while not a lover of new year’s resolutions, I do believe in taking stock and giving thanks.


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sleeping in moonglow

a whole moon
shrinking
without stark relief
or angles
perhaps hanging
in a mist I cannot see
its clear light
muted and opaque
entering my room
by stealth
air brushing
walls and shapes
and sets them floating
in the glow
along with me

_____________________________________
a shortling, about the moonlight that found every corner of my room last night. it was so different, I couldn’t help but notice.


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as the day appears

out the kitchen window
tree shapes firming
into open sky, no clouds,
no stars either when I woke,
odd perhaps, but then it is
September, morning mist
that snakes through lip and rift
of mountain arms we sit below.
no birds yet, they are coming,
morning racers like my neighbors
on their way to work, engines
smoothly powering along,
except for one white truck,
rough run noise his signature,
not quite glass pack,
loving laying rubber
when he knows I’ll hear,
turning to the town and work,
the squeal is saved for later
and a certain audience.
I am grateful,
smiling.

my daughter with Eddie


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Lioness still

You think you know,
beforehand,
what you will feel,
but no it is impossible
the first time,
even with a child
you carry, part of you.
The fierce love comes
in waves of tenderness
letting down like milk
and never stops.
With each new step
from stone to anchored stone
across life’s flow,
strength to strength, joy to joy,
my heart follows, watching,
knowing only pride
as she runs on, lioness also,
my firstborn.

____________________________________
For my daughter, on her birthday

flowers from Geoff


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every day, love

we settle, cozy with each other,
life together flowing,
knowing we won’t leave
this place, our coupleness,
while our hearts are here.

quiet moments, though less weighted,
felt more clearly than crescendos,
simple, loving gestures
saturated with delight,
flowers you have chosen,
waiting on our table,
lovely, in a jar or pitcher,
knowledge of these growing things
and bird songs,
gifts I brought to you
through our acquaintance,
love’s osmosis
passing bounty back to me.

you brought me here, to
nights on mountains,
walks through wetlands,
skiing on a snow deep pond
in winter moonlight,
summer swimming ledges,
hearing loons or beaver slaps,
thrushes lilting song in hemlock woods,
rhododendrons bent with snow,
discoveries that echo joy,
and I suppose, my loving them
is now a gift turned round again

to you


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glowing

us together, still
improbable ember
rescued from the dark,
almost at its end,
not quite extinguished

once hopeful
souls bared in grief,
looked with honest eyes
at last, just on the edge
and leapt as one
to breathe together,
gently turning glimmer
into glow once more,
memory and faith
relighting love,
honesty and trust
its fuel

standing steady,
hand clasped
loving hearts
held surely,
hard won flames
our bright reward

A swamp lobelia?


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the dowser

he worked, still unaware
there was a gift
beyond his certain talents
waiting for a moment’s spark
to see and use.
then reaching out in love
still cloaked by friendship,
recognizing shuttered light
so long denied, abandoned,
the door was opened
to a warm, lit space
free of expectation or of limit,
safe haven for them both
although not recognized
at first, that’s what it was.
she was reborn before his eyes,
her art and life renewed,
and seeing, knew
this was no random thing,
a path for him to follow, work to do.
he was and is a dowser,
spirit drawing spirit
from the clutches of oblivion.

_______________________________________
posting in her blog, Maria Wulf described her life and thoughts before she found her art again. A year ago her husband Jon Katz formed an online community to foster the creative spirit in people willing to open up to new possibilities. Fortunate to be a member of this wonderful group, I’ve been thinking about the road we have traveled together, and how far we all have come. For Jon and Maria.


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The Arrival

She didn’t even have to knock.
The gates were open, waiting
for her, pearled, radiating starlight.
So she walked right through,
upright, head high, heart open,
pain and frailty left behind,
sure that she would soon be
with those she loved
already there.

She stopped to listen then, hearing
song and music, and as she did
an angel joined her, passing hand
in hand into a place she could
never have imagined, but
felt she’d always known.
Sunrays and moonlight shining together,
Imagine that, she thought.

On they went, to see Himself, who
stood with open arms for
her arrival, asking her to walk
a while and share the secrets of her heart.
Full of joy she asked if all
were greeted in this way. He said
yes, but those of great old age, valiant
still, filled with love and goodness,
have a special place in my heart.

I know you Dorothy as one such soul,
reaching out in friendship.
Mother, woman, friend, full of
laughter, tears and sorrows too,
for that is human life. Working
hard, caring unstintingly.
You were always meant to come here,
even though you worried at the end.
Oh yes, I saw you with your child,
who bravely let you go warmly
bathed in love. A strong rare
bond, a mother’s job well done.

A musician you say?
Oh yes, I do remember, very gifted,
there are many like her here
joined in common song. And yes,
I know she is a writer too,
part of a group that took you
to themselves, named you heavy D,
delighted by your laughing spirit.

There are many souls waiting
to welcome you with love
in sweet reunion,
but before we part this time,
is there any question left unanswered,
any wish I can fulfill?
When shall you see your child again?
She will always be welcome, but
we need more trumpets at the moment,
so it will be a good long while I think.
A chocolate shake? Dear heart,
you have come to the right place.

__________________________________
for Dorothy Williams, dearest heavy D, who passed through those gates on August 15. with love and abiding admiration from one of her Space People. Photograph by Denise Gainey, copyright © 2014, used with permission.


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point of gray

after sun’s descent
with afterglow in slow pursuit
the light outside begins to fade
until one sees all hue has gone
a world soft palleted in gray
before deep purple
and true night

an oddness, this, I think
that with light’s advent or decline
the ordered spectrum has no steady march
but serves the sun and air, its masters
angled to the earth

at day’s beginning
the gears of light move
to reverse extinction
from the night before
black to grape toned whisper
I am coming, yes, believe
and like a drop of color into water
at a point so undefined and quick
the eye and mind are fooled
the gray point fulcrum tips
to show the world in monochrome
until God’s brush begins to paint again
and it is dawn

__________________________________________________
in Miss Entrican’s Fifth Form Biology at Channing we learned the eye sees color only to a certain point of diminishing light, after which everything is gray. decades later I still love to watch for that moment.


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movement

I’d rather think of
ripples curving smoothly
from a starting point of action,
than of progress, a patched together
plastic shape, often cloaked in force and
negative pronouncements stoked by fear.
movement as the path of thought
takes on the form and palette
of decision, effort made whole
by many different voices,
each at their own beginning,
listening, open, ready for
a mote of truth, floating
weightless in the light,
until in recognition
and with eager hands
they hold it safe,
linked together,
solid in intent,
flowing forward,
enlightenment
made real.

___________________________________________
I’ve been thinking recently about how agreement is achieved, and the difference between change by consensus vs the forward march of progress by decree.


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where it lands

precious drops of rain
rest in a scoop,
their surface
flinging hints of
life collected there
back to observant eyes,
their mass a seamless joining.

there is no certainty
of friendship as we meet,
no formula to join
both like and opposite
to make a whole.

recognition, kindred
souls, kindness
melding without seam,
like bits of nurture
from the sky,
these form a precious bond,
only if we allow ourselves
a look, a breath,
and see its landing place

___________________________________
friendship often seems a purely random thing, but it is necessary to be open to it, wherever it is found. sometimes it presents itself smack in our face, not to be ignored. this poem is for two dear friends I have known for but a year and yet forever, both Deborahs, who celebrate their birthdays this month.


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sitting in

walking into warmth and welcome
with a close held friend,
we find a solid place,
crafted lovingly
of wood, and glass, and hope,
the love of neighbor,
dignified by quiet repetition,
faith made real,
seen in face and heart,
heard in voices raised in song,
those who come once more
to hear a gifted preacher’s words,
sharing his belief in purpose
and God’s love,
of the journey into faith.
all this I see, from number 31,
(an alto seat), gladly sitting in,
sending up my hymn with theirs,
in deep appreciation
for the gift of wisdom,
ours that day to
keep and savor

__________________________________________
for Tom Atkins, the preacher Deborah Rahalski and I heard that day, our friend and fellow creative spirit, on the occasion of his birthday.