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...

JUST BECAUSE

Photo by S. Auberle

IN THE WAITING ROOM

I don't understand why, but Blogger will no longer allow me to post images, or they've changed the process to be impossible to figure out how.  At any rate, if I can't post images on my blog, I'll be moving to another site and starting over, because I must be able  to include visuals or it's simply not the same.  After almost seven years on this site, maybe it's time...so here's a new poem...

IN THE WAITING ROOM

The door groans open

and in they totter--

he on bent, wobbly legs,

she cautious, in a red blouse,

her hair like April snow

flying in every direction at once.

He announces we're here

for Rose's blood pressure

and the receptionist smiles,

everyone smiles, even me

who's grumpily waiting

for yet another remedy

on how to patch up aging bones.

They fall into chairs

across the room

and laughing, Rose says

oh you've worn your yellow socks

and he displays them proudly.

Well that'll stop the clock, she says

while on the wall above us

time ticks relentlessly away.

okay, so my photo finally got published, though not where I wanted it to be, and frankly if this doesn't get easier to post, it's adios amigoes!

TWELVE WISHES FOR YOU

Photo by S. Auberle

TWELVE WISHES FOR THE NEW YEAR 

In January I wish for you black velvet skies

and a million dazzling stars.

In February, may you walk beneath them,

a loved one's hand in yours.

For March, let fresh winds bluster

through you, clearing out the old,

and may April's halo of tender leaves

inspire you to new growth.

A dance 'round a Maypole

is my wish for you in Spring,

and fields of June blossoms to nap in.

July, may you know a quiet cove,

and endless hours to dream there.

For August, I wish you blue lakes to sail on,

September, fiesta days

of orange, red and gold.

In October, may that harvest moon

paint your nights with light,

and the soft snows of November

enfold you in stillness.

At last comes dark December,

and my wish for you then,

and always, is peace...

 

~  mimi

 

an old poem that will always be my wishes for you...Happy New Year to all!

CHRISTMAS EVE

digital enhancement of handpainted batik piece- artist unknown

I first posted Fra Giovanni's "Letter to a Friend" on Christmas Eve, 2008.  Though it was written long ago, in a far different world than today,  I think its message is still important and beautiful.  I hope you think so too. 

I salute you.  I am your friend and my love for you goes deep.  There is nothing I can give you which you have not got.  But there is much, very much, that while I cannot give it, you can take.  No heaven can come to us unless our hearts find rest in today.  Take heaven!  No peace lies in the future which is not hidden in this present little instance.  Take peace!  The gloom of the world 

is but a shadow.  Behind it, yet within our reach, is joy.  Take joy!  Life is so full of meaning and purpose, so full of beauty...that you will find earth but cloaks your heaven.  Courage then to claim it, that is all!  And so I  greet you, with profound esteem and with the prayer that for you, now and forever, the day breaks and the shadows flee away.

 

~  Fra Giovanni, Christmas Eve, 1513

SOLSTICE MUSINGS

digitalized image of a sculpture by G. Panko

Day after Solstice, day after some thought the world might end.  It didn't, thank goodness, our lovely pearl blue mother still carries us gently through the dark Universe . The busy UPS truck skids past the house, a squirrel with a particularly determined look crosses the road after, and heads for the bird feeder.  Persistently, he (or she) keeps at the slippery feeder, and after five plunges to the ground, has it figured out.  In such weather I can't deny the squirrel, if only he weren't so greedy.  The cardinal family waits, respectfully, and then along comes red-capped, red belly woodpecker to take over.  The day would be so dark without all this red…but today the light begins its return!   The long tall white Santa I found at the thrift store gazes serenely out into the gray morning.  Stars spill from his bag.  I love this Santa who brings only light.  Of course there is a time and place and need for presents, but it seems to have gone awry these days.  Too much begins too soon in the year, with the slow inward turning and celebrations of harvest and thanks lost in consumerism's greed.  I am equally guilty, and this old Santa may help me to focus on what is true and right this time of year.  Down through time, all cultures have focused on light--the inevitable loss of it, and beseeched its return.  Shamans have danced, enormous ancient monuments constructed, which remain yet today as a reminder.  This year crowds gathered, respectful and silent, at Stonehenge as the sun rose through the giant sarsens and bluestones.  I look at the Hopi silver bracelet I treasure with its images of Kokopelli flinging stars into the night.  In some old petroglyphs and legends he is known as the "lightbringer."  I wear this bracelet with the hope that, in my time, I may bring my small share of light not only to those I love, but to all I touch at this dark time of year and always.  Let there be light, my friends, let us be light.

TWELVE~TWELVE~TWELVE

Digitalized Photo by S. Auberle

Of course you knew I would do it    I had to     who could not write a poem on this numerically auspicious day    on this day the Mayans may have predicted our world could end    then again they might simply have run out of room on the stone tablet     thrown it down and went over to the local ceremonial hall for a beer    but we'll never know unless of course it actually does end    perhaps even before I finish this poem    at 6:03 a.m. in the month the Anishnaabe call Little Spirit Moon when the temperature is 16 degrees and a lone icicle suspends itself out my window    a day when I am    o my god seventy    and the sky is turning fifty shades of pale rose   indigo     and cream      a day when Pope Benedict XVI hits the one million mark as he tweets dear friends and I hear my grandma rolling over in her grave   my stubborn grandma who really believed the pope was infallible    though we are assured    thank goodness    that his tweets are not    on a day when North Korea launches another rocket    there is another mall tragedy      a day when Manuel Pardo eats his last meal of pumpkin pie and eggnog before he is executed in Florida     this day when I'm thinking of getting a dog again though the last one near to broke my heart    and mother of god I'm seventy    and what happens   do you think     when we die     because even in the best of circumstances it can't be too far off    this one thing we all share    this one thing I'm even scared to mention    which is what this poem is really about and do you think Zackie my dog and grandma will be there to greet me        because jesus I'm seventy now    aren't I     and the colors in the east are fading     becoming one grand chorus of light…