Photo by S. Auberle

old poem, new photo

LUCINDA’S SYMPHONY 

To see the world in a grain of sand, and to see heaven in a wildflower,

hold infinity in the palm of your hand and eternity in an hour.

             -  William Blake

My great-grandparents were called

the Plain People.  I never knew them

but for this one story that survives

of Grandma and her piano,

it’s wood burnished like satin

from beeswax applied as often

as eight children and a farm allowed.

The piano sat in her parlor

as she never did,

and children could only look,

admonished sternly if they touched

this sinful object, its music forbidden

by Amish folk on their narrow

path to heaven.

But Lucinda didn’t care.  I imagine

her on a winter day, the parlor icy,

sun shyly touching the piano.

Lucinda’s hands trembling

as she presses one key, softly—

hearing a symphony

in that single note.

PAPA CAN YOU HEAR ME

Photographer Unknown

You're beginning to fade, Papa,

in the photo of you

and Mama and me

but I'm only two years old

and don't see you disappearing

yet.

I still feel your arms

around me at bedtime,

know warm goodnight

kisses and hugs,

breathe the man-smell of you

when you tickle my ears

with your nose.

Tomorrow, Papa,

a picnic please?

Let's go to the beach

where that light is so bright

I can still see

little girls in your eyes...

excerpted from the poem "Invisible" in my first book--
"Saturday Nights at the Crystal Ball"

published by Cross+Roads Press, currently out of print

SCENES FROM THE KEWEENAW

Photo by S. Auberle

Been doing some traveling--one trip up to the Keweenaw Peninsula, in Michigan's Upper Peninsula...we go there as often as we can to drop back to a simpler way of life and be revitalized creatively--this is a selection of notes from various seasons of the year...

SCENES FROM THE KEWEENAW

~  flock of black crows

in field of white daisies

~oatmeal and buckwheat honey

apricots like small, fallen suns

your hands, reaching

~ another summer passing

we wait and watch

for blueberries ripening

~  Brother Raymond

at the Jampot gives us a taste

of marzipan and wild rosehip jam

~  beer at Harbor House

from a brewery first established

in Germany in 1049

~ the subject today

in Babette's Café

is the wind

~  church bells ringing out this noontime

 last night shouts and screams blading the dark

a terrified woman shouting no no no

~  Connie's Kitchen--the best pasties in the UP

her passing parade of diners almost as good

~  through Bumbletown, pop. 48,

down to the Gratiot River where last summer

fields of pink prairie roses bloomed

~  sign on church board--Can today be enough?

yes and yes and yes

A TRAINED CLOWN

Photo by S. Auberle

A TRAINED CLOWN

Smile though your heart is aching.

               ~- Charlie Chaplin

She trained, you know

as a clown, says my friend

as if that made Sophie's life

all bright fun and merriment

untouched by sorrows

like the rest of us.

I wonder is Sophie happier

because she's the real thing

instead of we who fake it

with garish red smiles  

and sad eyes holding back

all those lakes of tears

     except for one painted drop

     trickling down our pallid faces.

Shiny Things

digitalized photo by S. Auberle

SAIL ON

for Lucha 

A friend and I are walking  in the forest this morning, talking of sadness.  Even though it's spring, still sometimes you must speak of such things, because it helps to share sorrow.   Even in May when trilliums are bursting out everywhere and bright birds are at their most songly selves.   

Afterwards we sit on her porch and drink tea, shoo away stinging things, share an orange.   The sun is warm on our upturned faces, and there are only one or two clouds in the high blue.   We drink in the small peace that our talk brought.  Still, sadness remains--friends gone too soon; unwelcome change; aging bodies no longer what they once were.   

And then something magical happens.  Sailing in from over the bay comes a shiny silver balloon.  It approaches slowly, on a gentle breeze, as if it's only reason for being is for us to see it float across our sky with its simple message of quiet joy.  The balloon gleams in the sun, a cord trailing beneath.  It snags for an instant on a treetop, and then calmly extricates itself to catch another breeze and rise again, finally out of sight.   Celebrate, it seems to whisper, disappearing into the East, as once did a magic star so long ago.  Now.   Here.   In this moment which is all any of us have.    Then it sails on.  

In disbelief we look at each other and laugh, because it seems like there might be magic afoot and because trilliums are twirling like white ballerinas and birds are crooning their nuptial songs and really, in spring, what else would you ever want to do? 

FOR MY MOM

unknown photographer

FLYAWAY 

If my mother returned this day

I would wrap her in my arms,

 

rest my cheek on her soft hair,

share my food with her-- 

this creamy slice of Fontina

a golden pear, a little wine 

and we would laugh

and eat and drink 

until it was time for her to return

to wherever it is she belongs now. 

            She would fly away, gently

            as the silk of this milkweed pod 

and a crow, awaiting

the crumbs of our feast,     
would bid her fond farewell.


~  miss you so much, Mom

HERE THEY COME

Photo by S. Auberle

The  dandelions have returned and was there ever such a yellow?  A truly unappreciated flower, for sure.  I love this little piece from a favorite book of mine:  "The Persistence of Yellow" by Monique Duval:

"You ask me how things work.  I think of endless cycles, the hum and spin of everything.  So I tell you this:  hold the pale green stalk up high.  And then run hard so the wind will catch the wings of the dandelion seeds.  Let them fall like sparks, like stars, back to the earth.  I can tell you are not satisfied.  But really.  That's all there is to it:  The persistence of yellow."      #204

ALMOST SPRING

Photo by S. Auberle

Something Keeps Calling 

all morning, it whispers in my ear--

go to the river--as I wash clothes,

make the bed, clean the garage,           

            go, go now to the river… 

By noon the voice is insistent

so I start down the path

kicking up last autumn’s leaves 

and no one sees the child in me

except a black dog I meet

who smiles, as some dogs do so well  

and just because it's spring, I guess

and then I am here at this river of light

where I sit on moist grass 

and don’t even notice the wet seat

of my jeans as a small green frog

wanders by, and red-winged

blackbirds serenade me in the cattails.

Sun glints off the feathers

of grumbling cormorants 

passing over in their somber black

and a busy kinglet--regal

in his golden crown scolds--           

            now honey, tell me--

            whatever in the world
            was more important than this?           

                          ~  mimi

yes, the river and poem landscape don't match, but it is a river of light, and it is May Day, so let's not worrry about troubling details and celebrate Spring at last!

FAREWELL, MY FRIEND

Photo by S. Auberle

Rain keeps falling, another north wind wails this morning, as Spring  glooms on.   The little gray cat drapes herself across the back of my chair, purring as I write.  She's good for me, because, these days, like so many others, I turn sad at the thought of my teacher, Norbert Blei--my mentor, my friend, leaving.  He--this shaman of words, who taught me to bring out what was inside, who believed in me and never stopped telling me so.  Norbert disliked intensely the word "magic."  Never use it, he growled, or angels or sunsets, roses, all those old hackneyed cliché words.  But sorry, Norb, I have to say it--there was no one more full of magic than you.  The Pied Piper of words, images, stories--we followed along, joyfully, exuberantly, behind  you--a long string of would-be writers and you believed in every one of us.

Today is the birthday of William Shakespeare, another master of words.  Tonight the full moon will light up the world, if it can get through the clouds, but our light is gone--at 8:18 a.m., just a few minutes ago, Norbert, with Jude his love, by his side, passed.  Suddenly, there are no more words.

EARTH DAY

Photo by S. Auberle

PRAYER FOR VILLAGE EARTH

(for seven generations)
  

 Mother Earth, we pray today

to join with our brothers and sisters

in the company of whom we share this web of life.

We will not take from you lightly, nor do harm.

We will respect those creatures with whom we live.

Wolf, Hawk, Turtle and Bear, we honor you

and all our four-legged brothers and sisters.

Bless us, please, you Flying People,

Crawling People, the Swimmers, Plant and Tree People.

Father Sun, we beseech you

to shine down your light upon us.

Sister Rain and Brother Wind, walk softly here,

for we are small beneath your power.

Sister Moon, shine gently as you guide us

into dreamtime, and when you journey across the world,

send your stars to light our way home.

Mother Earth, accept our prayer,

bless us with your energy and healing.

Help us remember that we are connected

to all who share your sacred web of life—past,

present, and future—that in divinity

we may exist as one…

~  Sharon Auberle

first published in WomanPrayers

NATIONAL HAIKU DAY

Collage by S. Auberle

In honor of crows and National Haiku Day:  

crow ink writes across

paper sky of rose and blue

the wind erases all 

cat, old hound and me

dreaming in the autumn sun

crow calls Winter’s near! 

white sky paints the dawn

muted crows wing overhead

the snow whispers down

~  mimi

ON THE BEACH

Photo by S. Auberle

I was the world in which I walked, 
and what I saw

Or heard or felt came 
not but from myself:

And there I found myself 
more truly and more strange.

~  Wallace Stevens

SMITTEN WITH THE SUN

Photo by S. Auberle

in Springtime we are all

smitten with the sun--

the orchid basking in my window    

a few leftover snowflakes

that black devil of a squirrel

emptying my bird feeder

North Koreans rattling their sabers

the waning moon high at noon

suicide bombers

red sheets on the clothesline

            sometimes I wonder

            if God might be the Sun

            shining on everyone

            deservedly or not

            even the warmongers

            and that damn squirrel

                           ~mimi

AN EASTER POEM

Digitalized antique photo--photographer unknown

TWO GRANDMOTHERS

The sky is gray this Easter day

as Ohio skies tend to be,

but the air is soft

with promise, with lambent light

shining on hidden eggs

in nests of new spring grass.

From the kitchen smells of ham

and potatoes and pie

waft through the cool air.

The grandmothers wipe their hands

on Sunday aprons, watch

my boy and girl tumbling through the grass.

I watch them, memorizing

the worn lines of their faces

the comfort of those ample arms

that nurtured me, once and still.

Great-grandmothers now--

grandfathers gone on before them

to that place that beckons

this day of hope and resurrection.

Grandma Agnes takes a last pie

out of the oven, while I try

to gather up memories,

fading even as I watch, and

Grandma Ruth calls us in to dinner,

her good church dress soft

and flowing as soon-to-be-wings.

~mimi

HOORAY, SPRING!

Photo by S. Auberle--"Morning Rose"
Even a dried rose looks beautiful in this new sun...

So I'm sitting out on the porch this morning, soaking up sun for the first time in months.  Birds are tentatively singing as if they are afraid to bring notice to themselves, roof gutters are running with water music and I am blissing out.  I glance down at the porch stones and watch a cricket crawl out from wherever she's been hiding all winter.  The effort seems to exhaust her and she appears to be doing just what I am--stretching out in the sun.  She doesn't move for the longest time and neither do I.  Finally, I get up to go in the house, which seems to startle the cricket and she springs up in (for her) a giant leap.   And I think we are both smiling...

THE ANSWER

Photo by S. Auberle

An old poem I may have posted long ago, but it's how I'm feeling today...

And when you 

finally sit them down,

these busy little souls

with stars and suns

shining in their eyes

they want to know everything--

like who tore that moon in half,

and does the wind sing

trees to sleep, 

and they believe you understand

what this world is all about

when, in fact, you know

less each day, and suddenly

it doesn't seem important

to know any more,

even though they're looking

at you for answers

and you can only reply

love, just love...

~  mimi

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

Photographer unknown

Happy Birthday to my beautiful mama...you would have been 100 today!

RING THE BELLS

Internet Photo

So it seems as though nothing will change with the election of this new Pope.  And for a  brief moment, I had hoped...
I attended Catholic schools for 12 years, and to this day, because of Church teachings, I struggle to know that yes, I am just as good as a man..
This poem is an old one, about a conversation I should have had...

Sister, why can't I be an altar boy?

Because you're a girl, dear.

Oh.

Sister, did you ever want to be a priest?

pause...

Oh no, my child, only men can be priests.

Oh.

Why?

Women are not allowed on the altar, dear.

But Mary's mom goes up there and she even touches the altar.

The altar must be cleaned and dusted, my child,

and Mary's mother is  allowed the privilege of keeping it shining for God.

Oh.

And is it a privilege to wash and iron the altar linens, Sister?

Oh yes, we women are the keepers of the House of our Lord.   We alone know how to care for it and we find joy in that.  Do you see, dear?

No.

What is it draws you to the altar, my child?  Perhaps you might begin thinking of a vocation.

You mean I could be a priest?

Oh no, dear, I meant as a nun like myself, who proudly stands at the priest's side helping souls in their quest for heaven.

No.

Then why, child, do you want to be an altar boy?

The bells, Sister, I would like to ring those shiny silver bells, make them sing like Danny does.

Tell me why, Sister, why are boys better at ringing bells than me?

I'm just as good as Danny.

Aren't  I?

A SINGLE THING

Photo by S. Auberle

"When we tug at a single thing in nature,

we find it attached

to the rest of the world."

~  John Muir

MARCH 11, 1942

Photo by S. Auberle

March 11, 1942 - A day to be remembered...
"Jews, Gypsies, homosexuals, asocials, criminals and prisoners of war were gathered, stuffed into cattle cars on trains and sent to Auschwitz.
                                   ~  Google

Paris--first deportation of those to be murdered

are herded into train cars

this day, bound for Auschwitz--

the first of over one million to die there

and across the ocean in America

I am  born the day before.

Here stops my poem.  Seventy years later

what is left to say?  Again, I am just born...

I have the same number of words today

I had that first hour

as I lay there new and safe--

by the luck of some heavenly lottery

a long straw waving in my tiny fist.

Will it change anything

for me to remember

that Jewish child born the same day

in Paris, City of Love,

or the small Gypsy girl, the father

who stole milk to feed  them?

And should I say I'm sorry

and by the grace of some god

might they, somewhere, hear?

Will those two words change anything

in this world of instant everything?

Maybe the one word left to say

is the one word never to forget--

remember...

~  mimi

WHAT POETS DO

Photo by R. Murre

Blow, west wind
that the small rain down can rain,
Christ, that my love were in my arms
and I in my bed again...
~  Anonymous, 14th century

The poet walks alone,

listening, dreaming, watching,

because this is what poets do

and centuries are passing

with every breath she takes,

 and stars are being born,

and all around her

women are birthing new dreamers,

their miniature heart-fists pulsing

with desire, eager to begin

transcribing the music

and laments of love...

~  mimi

The little fragment of verse at the top was the first poem I fell in love with--in high school--and is probably the reason I became a poet...  

FORTY DAYS

Photo by S. Auberle

FORTY DAYS TILL SPRING

Foxes are pairing up now;

coyotes singing their love songs;

birds in dull winter coats

dreaming, perhaps, of nuptial plumage.

Peaks and valleys of frost

line the windows this morning.

Outside gems sparkle

in the tiny snow tracks

of a mouse scurrying to shelter.

The sky is that diamond blue,

light cascading down

the tapestry of branches

black and bare for now,

green only a memory

except in wind-twisted cedars

and the winter palace

of bay ice—marble floored

in pale jade and sapphire,

but seeds are stirring now

awakening beneath the earth

their verdant fire rising

slowly, ever so slowly

in the lingering light

of these forty days till Spring.

an old poem, published in a slightly different form in "The Clearing Speaks"

PAINTING THE SKY

My digitalized photo of a stamp--artist unknown

sixteen degrees

this eighth day of February

and about this time

winter begins to hurt

but the black brush

of crow wings

still inks this sky

a Chinese painting

in flowing progress

cracked voices singing

all is joy...

~  mimi

slightly altered version of poem which originally appeared in Crow Ink

IT'S OKAY TO BE BROKEN

Photo by S. Auberle

she loves foggy days

they way they still

the clamoring

how they enfold her

and kiss her hair

she thinks it's okay

to be broken

on a day like this

when the sky

is only a dream

good to let fog

wrap her in velvet

whisper small secrets

like a mother to her babe

forgive all those dark things

she never meant to happen...

~mimi

SOUP 'N SUCH

Photo by S. Auberle

SOUP AND SUCH 

If I had my druthers, I’d do just two things every day:  write poetry and make soup…a dark brown lentil soup for cold, rainy days, with enough fire to heat you;  bean soup--to remember my mom who always put ketchup in her bowl of beans;  Granny’s Cabbage Patch soup because I love the smell of simmering cabbage and onions; and about a hundred others.  I’d be writing poems like crazy, for all that soup would inspire them and I’d stop now and then to have a bowl, slice some good, yeasty bread that smelled of sun and earth.  I’d butter it thickly and pour glasses of hearty red wine, invite someone, now and then, to share, then shoo them away and write some more, till all the words and soup had run out.  Suddenly, I’d notice the moon, and you, waiting patiently for my fever to subside, and finally, I’d stop.  You would still be there, reading a book, sipping wine, stoking up the fire, and at last, there would be nothing else but to lie down beside it, and write poems all   over   each   other   all   night   long.
~mimi

Photo by S. Auberle

HERON IN WINTER

I saw her today,

blue on blue on blue

ice, sky, bird.

She was stepping slowly

onto the frozen pond,

and how, you may ask,

do I know the bird was female? 

It was just a look,

a topknot of feathers

ruffled in the cold,

the way she stood so still

as I passed near.

There seemed a connection

(a poet’s fancy, no doubt)

of eggs and nests and nurture

a connection in the season

when bird and woman

must leave safe ground,

step out onto that place

where our old faces

shine back at us,

new and full of light,

though we feel unsure

but strong, because

it’s what we have to do,

sometimes, to survive.

The sky is a mirror

beneath our long legs

but oh, beautiful sister,

where will you sleep tonight?

~  mimi

an old favorite from Crow Ink...