Life With Horace

poetry & essays

Category Archives: poetry


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light at an angle

it is a gift I take for granted
with no remorse or hesitation,
as it is given freely
to any open eye.
angled early light,
shadows cast ahead of its arrival,
backlighting leaves and shapes,
opaque and glowing
slanted blades cut through
the woods filled up with morning haze
left over from a night of rain,
all seen in passing
on a backwoods shortcut road,
chosen not for haste but beauty,
and the joy I feel
when passing by

________________________________
I am a light addict. once I learned to see light, not just crave it, my view of the world changed forever. for Jon Katz as he heals. his vision has opened many eyes.


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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

_______________________________
My father died at 89 in 2005, 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.


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walking in dew

there it is
outside the door,
in the grass,
drops and spangles
waiting
for unsuspecting toes
to wander through

once I would have
gone around
or though dark spaces
to avoid it
and the sand
it would attract
like limpets,
gritty, stubborn

but not this time,
when my
allotted moments
will surely
tumble through
the hours,
grain by grain,
knowing I will sit,
away from sunlight,
without breezes,
birdsong, sweetness
from a tree in blossom,
pesky gnats, a sighting
of a passing fox,
the melody of water
over stone

today I choose
the path through dew
and will not waste
whatever small,
but precious
sensate gifts
an unseen hand
puts in my way

_______________________
this has the benefit of being true, as my southern grandmother used to say, in that I did choose to walk through the dew this morning, only to get to work and realize that I’d had a major brain fart, and was two hours early. yes. sigh. after running a couple of errands (where I did see a fox in my bank’s parking lot), I spent a blissful hour beside Nubanusit Brook, in “downtown” Peterborough, on a granite bench. near the perfume-rich tree in the photo. writing.


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warrior (for the light)

fist raised to the sun
in soft salute,
a signal presence
with intent to grow,
unfold from chrysalis
to full formed frond,
radiating energy
at every bladed tip,
proof that light
will foster growth,
atoms racing out,
stronger when they
touch and ping
their fellows,
moving, nurtured
on the journey
of creation

____________________________________
for The Open Group at Bedlam Farm and for Jon Katz who saw the light, and told us it existed.


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brilliance

thank you
for another day
and this clear morning,
sky scrubbed clean
by weeks of rain
and teasing clouds
that sometimes gave
a glimpse ahead, with
cores of incandescence
thickly edged in gray

thank you
for rays that stream
between the curves and arms
of freshly leafed-out trees,
silhouettes of feeding grackles
dark against a row of lilacs,
backlit foxglove petals
rich with sun
to stun my eyes

thank you
for this early clarity
to show my day direction,
light so brilliant
it almost bursts
my soul

___________________________
yesterday morning’s light was extraordinary.


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dreams

what part of us
creates a dream,
where thought and memory
interweave to speak
about the day now done
and point to work ahead?
perhaps the spirit snatches
piecemeal chunks of thought
and welds them into
(technicolor) sequence,
for decoding by the heart,
still echoing the joy or fear
or puzzled voice
that sat upon our sleep,
until we wake,
relieved to know it
as unreal, or sad to leave
an ecstasy behind

___________________________
my dreams are always vivid, and in color. for me half the “fun” of dreams is puzzling out their origins on waking up.


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green water

sun rich light, through
leaves above this brook,
drops glowing green
into the water
moving surely
through my woods

nothing murky,
this is crystal
over pebbled granite,
drawing with it
memory and flavors
held by silt
and wood orts, shed
by gently rotting windfalls

the water of this moment
leaves us, on its way
to pond, then stream and river
with its story, bringing news
of seasons past
and momentary glories
as it joins
the greater flow

________________________________
I first noticed the green water on Fassett Brook last summer, its return has been very welcome


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quietly

a glimpse of truth,
new knowledge
armoring the possible,
slaying dragons quietly
for the child that lives in me,
the simple telling moment,
small pebble in the pond,
that ripples out
in growing rings
of confidence,
headed for certainty

_________________________________
turning points don’t arrive on schedule, but when they do, no matter the catalyst, change can be profound.


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memoriam

as I begin with gratitude
for another morning,
today my thanks include
the gift from countless
soldiers, first responders,
citizen patriots all
who came when called for service
volunteers or not,
willingly or not,
just cause or not.

they put themselves
between their country
and a bullet
aimed at its heart,
a human shield
to turn back
fire and dread upon itself
lest their wrath
engulf us all.

the possibility of choice,
of disagreement with
the forward march of war,
lives on for us
because of their belief
that stepping forward
was an act of honor.

that they
no longer breathe,
or rejoice in
our country’s rare
unfettered freedoms
while I and
countless others do,
fills me with
abiding gratitude.


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resurfacing

at some point in the spring
with final farewells said,
the forest floor,
so visible all winter,
stuck with upright trunks
and fallen wood
against the snow
or rich red-brown,
retreats awhile
to steep its humus brew

and with the first
green carpet runners
stretched out by a path
or rolled along a stream,
the leaves emerge
in verdant tonal steps
from brown to red
to fresh pastel
and map the world beneath
with sun and shade

while at the very top,
among the branching crowns
a child’s delight returns,
remembered shapes or faces
in the trees, glimpsed
from a bedtime pillow,
boon companions
for another summer

_______________________________________
With winter ebbing very slowly this year, the woods floor began to look quite different as the angle of the sun changed. It was marvelous to see it in this new light, and I realized that I’d miss it with the advent of true spring. I’ve always found shapes of animals or objects or more often, faces, in the leaves and branches of summer, yet another reason I love having a window by my bed.