Life With Horace

poetry & essays


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in place of

in place of tender walls of green
hot sunrise vibrant pink
flamed above bare trees

in place of overwhelming days
unblinkered eyes and free range thought
released to roam at will

in place of broadbrush turning trees
yellow leaf sun catchers glow chrome
against the rising dark of hills

in place of ready touch and nights spent close
quiet gratitude for unweighted joy
I am whole to dance again

in place of trees wrenched rudely from my woods
nightly sunset glory offered up
its afterglow on every side

in place of childish blankets of regret
unflinching truth accepted flings me up
to land as newly tempered steel

and then


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and then

standing still
feet feeling steady rock
in unfamiliar balance
time stops it seems
a blink really
the stream
of then to next
flowing over and around
and somehow through
bones in a shiver
of recognition
no longer straining
to spring free
of oz like cages
revealed as
weightless frauds
their power merely dust
looks ahead
so curious about
what comes next
but firmly rooted
in this moment
and leaps from
rock to rock
given over to
joy at last

beauty of white against dark green


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litany

what don’t I remember?
my collier brother brain
hoards words and time
with colors joining hands
to sing their song

I don’t remember
any moment spent
without a color wash
intensity of thought

I don’t remember
understanding those who hate
preferring to destroy
instead of build

I don’t remember
living days or nights
without a music counterpoint
embers into torches lighting memory

I don’t remember
sunsets painted on the undersides
of clouds or nature come to flower
without feeling joy almost to tears

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A leftover prompt, from Day 29. Things remembered, and what they weren’t.


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heart of the matter

heart (hart) n.
chambered, steady
quiet presence
headwaters
of love’s river
laced with
endearment
and courage
lost sometimes
mended often
freely given
ready always
for encounters
with joy
my soul lives there

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Day 17. A little behind, but no matter. A definition poem.


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corpus musicorum

to sing with my friends
brings joy to those
who hear us
but shoulder to shoulder
we who give voice
have earned
the greater gift
we stand inside
the living body of music
connected by
sublime resonance

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Day 9. A shortling about the gift of singing in a group. Day 9. The words wanted my attention, but not for very long!


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haiku for a winter saturday with notes

snowfall perfection
singular joins the many
floating from the sky

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saturdays mean one can exhale. today there are no chores or projects in an old house always in need. today will be spent with friends, mingling our joyous and foolish dogs, and gathering for a meal. there will be much laughter. the mind will stretch. a gift.


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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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everyday pleasures

at the piano I watch
small fingers make their music
so determined so well done
the joy in her eyes
is in my heart
joking laughter with
her brother, so much taller
than the last time
more movies made
and volumes read
a classroom visit
sticky hands and icing
gingerbread embellished
a dog asleep in sunlight
the rhythm of lives cherished
and held close in memory
to be enriched once more

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this poem was written as I read about the events in the lives of two very dear members of an online creative group I belong to. it is posted in recognition of profound love and loss, and my abiding gratitude for the love of my family, as we gather together this week.


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finding joy

in a redwood grove
the sun’s arm lights the ferny floor

in the company of beloved children
there is nonsense and wonder

in the winter marshland
there is texture more than color

in the midst of singing
the voices tell me stories

in the simple potent thing
there is splendor waiting for me

it feasts my eyes
and I am full of joy