Life With Horace

poetry & essays

Tag Archives: poetry


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The Arrival

She didn’t even have to knock.
The gates were open, waiting
for her, pearled, radiating starlight.
So she walked right through,
upright, head high, heart open,
pain and frailty left behind,
sure that she would soon be
with those she loved
already there.

She stopped to listen then, hearing
song and music, and as she did
an angel joined her, passing hand
in hand into a place she could
never have imagined, but
felt she’d always known.
Sunrays and moonlight shining together,
Imagine that, she thought.

On they went, to see Himself, who
stood with open arms for
her arrival, asking her to walk
a while and share the secrets of her heart.
Full of joy she asked if all
were greeted in this way. He said
yes, but those of great old age, valiant
still, filled with love and goodness,
have a special place in my heart.

I know you Dorothy as one such soul,
reaching out in friendship.
Mother, woman, friend, full of
laughter, tears and sorrows too,
for that is human life. Working
hard, caring unstintingly.
You were always meant to come here,
even though you worried at the end.
Oh yes, I saw you with your child,
who bravely let you go warmly
bathed in love. A strong rare
bond, a mother’s job well done.

A musician you say?
Oh yes, I do remember, very gifted,
there are many like her here
joined in common song. And yes,
I know she is a writer too,
part of a group that took you
to themselves, named you heavy D,
delighted by your laughing spirit.

There are many souls waiting
to welcome you with love
in sweet reunion,
but before we part this time,
is there any question left unanswered,
any wish I can fulfill?
When shall you see your child again?
She will always be welcome, but
we need more trumpets at the moment,
so it will be a good long while I think.
A chocolate shake? Dear heart,
you have come to the right place.

__________________________________
for Dorothy Williams, dearest heavy D, who passed through those gates on August 15. with love and abiding admiration from one of her Space People. Photograph by Denise Gainey, copyright © 2014, used with permission.


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point of gray

after sun’s descent
with afterglow in slow pursuit
the light outside begins to fade
until one sees all hue has gone
a world soft palleted in gray
before deep purple
and true night

an oddness, this, I think
that with light’s advent or decline
the ordered spectrum has no steady march
but serves the sun and air, its masters
angled to the earth

at day’s beginning
the gears of light move
to reverse extinction
from the night before
black to grape toned whisper
I am coming, yes, believe
and like a drop of color into water
at a point so undefined and quick
the eye and mind are fooled
the gray point fulcrum tips
to show the world in monochrome
until God’s brush begins to paint again
and it is dawn

__________________________________________________
in Miss Entrican’s Fifth Form Biology at Channing we learned the eye sees color only to a certain point of diminishing light, after which everything is gray. decades later I still love to watch for that moment.


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movement

I’d rather think of
ripples curving smoothly
from a starting point of action,
than of progress, a patched together
plastic shape, often cloaked in force and
negative pronouncements stoked by fear.
movement as the path of thought
takes on the form and palette
of decision, effort made whole
by many different voices,
each at their own beginning,
listening, open, ready for
a mote of truth, floating
weightless in the light,
until in recognition
and with eager hands
they hold it safe,
linked together,
solid in intent,
flowing forward,
enlightenment
made real.

___________________________________________
I’ve been thinking recently about how agreement is achieved, and the difference between change by consensus vs the forward march of progress by decree.


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where it lands

precious drops of rain
rest in a scoop,
their surface
flinging hints of
life collected there
back to observant eyes,
their mass a seamless joining.

there is no certainty
of friendship as we meet,
no formula to join
both like and opposite
to make a whole.

recognition, kindred
souls, kindness
melding without seam,
like bits of nurture
from the sky,
these form a precious bond,
only if we allow ourselves
a look, a breath,
and see its landing place

___________________________________
friendship often seems a purely random thing, but it is necessary to be open to it, wherever it is found. sometimes it presents itself smack in our face, not to be ignored. this poem is for two dear friends I have known for but a year and yet forever, both Deborahs, who celebrate their birthdays this month.


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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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The creative wars: staying true to your voice

In poetry writing years I’m not even a toddler, but after my first year of writing some truths stand out. It’s important to write for myself, at my own pace. Writing from a prompt, or for x number of days in a row does not come naturally. I did that in April for the poetry challenge, and it was an agony by the end. I think about writing every day, but don’t sit down to write until a poem begins in my head.

There is the constant battle with the desire for approval. Not about quiet satisfaction or even pleasure that my poems are appreciated. Writing for “them” is one way of putting it, and it turns my easy creative flow into a flat mill pond.

A word or phrase prompted by something seen or felt will make itself known and that’s it. The title (rarely changed), or the first line of the next poem. The first draft is always in longhand, messy and exciting. Most of the time I feel certain when it is done. The poem will let me know.


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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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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.