Life With Horace

poetry & essays


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The right note

Tomorrow might have been fifty-two
not just thirteen since thirty-nine
Aligned with family and gratitude
the day always reflected joy,
the heat of our love folded into stuffing
The missing of him has gotten harder
but it seems he knows. I came upon
the sound of his small gasp
that wrapped me up each time
in beauty gauze, when finally ready
I presented myself to his gaze
before our evenings out
Deliciousness itself, just knowing
that he would when I did
that he always meant it.
And I can smile now, the memory
a pitch perfect gift

.

.


Audio: Read by the author.


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against the grain

like clouds washing in
to butt against prevailing winds
close on the heels of rain
my path through time leaves more behind
than there are miles ahead
and I now gladly shed
the layered skins of reticence
once meekly worn, redundant chrysalides
freely spreading mind and heart
to net a cloud of lightning darters
filamented possibilities
imagining the shape and heft
of those not evidenced as yet
and make them real, ripe thoughts
such easy fruit within my reach
to smell and taste and feel
their juices staining lip and memory
the gift of years is freedom of the heart
to move the other way

__________________________
this evening, clouds coming from the east seemed to move contrary-wise on the heels of rain squalls, making me think of moving against the flow. A poem for day 7 of NaPoWriMo, and a present for my youngest sister, Julie, who understands the flow of life, and whose birthday it is both today and tomorrow, down under.


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Licentia poetica

You were spinsters then
and from our blinkered perch
we saw two ancients
despite a force of nature stance
and razor gaze conviction
flavoring snail paced tours
through plays and poems
or god help us Hardy
our take on you parodic
not ready to imagine
the depths of passion
you would later find
in brilliant marriage
to a Bishop friend
become a lover
or cloud dancing pilot
pioneering aerobatic ace
a red and yellow blur
carving skies in perfect loops
tweeds and twinsets flung away
your lessons had such legs
and far from trudging through
dull furrowed fields in metered step
we learned to track
and slither catlike round each word
to seize intent and voice and pace
in short a brilliant Poets Ed
put to the test at last
with gratitude

_________________________________
For Joan Ford Rutt (Fordy) and Frances MacRae (Muck), who did all those things and more.