Life With Horace

poetry & essays


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Mystery of their arrival

When I sing, music puts its hands around my heart
My words think tears are a puddle to splash through shoeless

Color often stops my breath, and I am held its prisoner
A sudden memory might need release

Any of these call up tears, and I don’t mind.
When the signal comes they might glide to me in a waltz,

or whirl up on the skirts of a wild mazurka.
Better yet, ride in on the smoothness of an alto sax.


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Sans Bliss

We were long split atoms
even then, the possibility of us
had ricocheted,
echoes of competing thoughts
a white sound mask.
Inexperienced, I flung
my satin stole of certainty
over each shoulder.
Wrong headed, ignorant
of the deeper dance of lust and love
that shook its head and left
to visit other lives.
Tantalizing milkweed silk,
a fluted thrush note fading
every time I would have
ventured back.

____________________________
for S


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for the taking

perhaps the stars
hold memories
diamond pinholes
punched in winter black
life stretched
across infinity
expanding overhead
even as my focus
might be squeezing in
and only looking back
a tempting counterweight
to shrinking time
well nuts to that
I’ll take the milky way
with thanks
refusing blinkered days
or thoughts
and will not shut
all possibility away
this heart and soul
are slated to remain
open for business
indefinitely


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the first present

there are trees here too
grown out of deep soil pockets
heads above the hardy root dug
mountain friends of home
this gathered woody host a nest
to hold a house containing
every one I love
still sleeping as the light
creeps up all cloudy
through the rain
a christmas only minds eye white
no clear skied sunrise
catching tree tops
by surprise
red bronze briefly
glistened by those gone ahead
dropstrings of love and memory
beams creak awake
almost the hour
for letting loose small bodies
counting moments since last night
behind me thumps and sighs
two sets of eyes meet mine
my patient dogs
the first gift of the day
belongs to them
and we are kitchen bound

_____________________________________
a small gift of words, a time filled with more love than things, christmas as it should be. my heart is very full.


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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.