Life With Horace

poetry & essays


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Floaters

High summer in an old house
Occupied by an army of visiting bugs
Brings dreams of parachutes
For those I must evict
The one too many ones
The wrong kind of spider
A waving scuttler scooped up
Elbowed legs and angled hairy parts 
Run the mercy packet to the door
Release the tissue wrapped passenger
And watch it float down to sanctuary
On a bed of violet leaves 

 

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A very old house. In the winter we have critters. Summer brings the bugs The right kind of spiders? Thin bodied long-legged spiders that look like Charlotte. 


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The Morgan

It could have been
a silver mercury portrait,
but a horse appeared
displacing stiff poses,
mane flying, neck muscles
bunched in effort,
galloping through
a glimpse of the past.

 

 


Audio: Read by the author.


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A marvelous photo of a Morgan mare by the photographer Deborah Glessner brought up the last two lines of the poem. 


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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.