Tuesday, April 25, 2006


Photo by S. Auberle

Off to ride bikes, play ball and endless games,
visit the zoo--all the fun things you get to do
when you're playin' grandma for a few days.
New pictures, new poems, new view of the world:
from down on the floor. Back in a week...

Here's a love poem for my granddaughter:


for Grace

I tell you her skin is a blush of gold,
the hue of certain Mediterranean shells,
and angels dance in the halo
of her sun-tipped hair.
You will, I promise, lose yourself
in the ancient pools of her eyes
and there remember
all the joys and sorrows of your life.
Beneath those smoky eyes
a dark line rims her lashes,
and I wonder how it came to be,
uncommon in a two year old face,
sophisticated, as if the Artist
who placed it there was listening
to Persian love poetry,
a Mozart concerto,
or a reborn soul
whispering in his ear:
in this lifetime
make me irresistible...

- mimi


Photo/collage by S. Auberle

While looking for another book
I came across more spring haiku.
Since the other haiku were by
men, we must have a woman's
thoughts on spring. And they
are simply too beautiful
not to share...

evening temple bell
stopped in the sky
by cherry blossoms

what's it dreaming
fanning its wings?

to tangle or untangle
the willow--
its up to the wind

woman's desire
deeply rooted--
the wild violets

These are all from a book called
"Chiyo-ni--Woman Haiku Master"

Monday, April 24, 2006

Spring Just Makes Me

Photo by S. Auberle

Though spring is not my favorite season,
I must admit there are powerful vibes in
the air. Who can remain untouched? A young
man (and woman's) fancy and all that, love
is in the air, the birds and the bees, etc., etc.

And poetry, oh what a time for poetry.
Maybe that's why April is National Poetry Month.

Two bittersweet haiku from the old masters:

Simply have faith: let all attachments go.
Do not blossoms scatter, even so?
- Issa

And so the spring buds burst, and so I gaze.
And so the blossoms fall, and so my days...
- Onitsura

Sunday, April 23, 2006


Photo by S. Auberle


My hair is sticky with caramel
from eating ice cream in the wind.
A barefoot girl in a silver skirt
skateboards across the plaza.
Her hair streams behind
in crow-black wings.
Trees are blossoming
in pink bursts of ecstasy.
A bearded man plays a guitar.
Thanks, many thanks,
to the god who designed all this.
So much love
we have yet to make...

- mimi


Here I am, holding a rose in the
long-ago garden of my grandmother.
(Yes, Virginia, they actually did
have cameras back then.)

Yesterday, at the wonderful writer's
fest, a question was asked of the members
of a panel entitled "Does Poetry Matter?."
The question was "why do you choose
to express yourself in poetry, rather than
another genre?" Implied, (in a kind way)
was the fact that poetry is unappreciated
by the general public, definitely of small
commercial value, and often understood,
or so it seems, by only a select few.

The panel found it difficult to answer--one
answer which I loved, came from a fine
woman author named Terese Svoboda. She
said I'm obsessed with writing poetry, addicted
to it, and it feels good..

I've been thinking about this question ever since,
and I think her response comes close to my own
reasons for writing poetry. Also, in thinking back
over my writing career, I believe that poets are born,
not made. So many of the poets spoke of lonely
(some by design, some by circumstance) childhoods,
where they preferred wandering the woods and hills,
attics and gardens with only their own imagination as
companion. As I was as a child. I clearly remember,
at the age of about six or seven, stepping out the
door after supper (in the midwest the last meal of
the day was not called dinner--dinner was at noontime)
into that golden light of sunset. You know, the kind
that turns everything glowing, rich, metallic--each
leaf of a tree, each flower. And, at the same time
hearing the lonely call of mourning doves--mourning,
perhaps, the brevity of such moments and life itself.
To this day, when I hear the call of a dove, that scene
briefly flashes through my mind. It is a treasured
moment in a lifetime of small moments, and one of
my reasons, I think, for loving the earth. I want
to save the beauty of it for my own children and
grandchildren--that they may have such moments
of their own. And, perhaps, poetry is a way of doing
that--by celebrating and shining light on small events
that would otherwise go unnoticed.

More on the ideas and inspirations that came of this
wonderful gathering of writers later.

Poetry is a song, words set to our own inner music.

- mimi

Saturday, April 22, 2006

Happy Spring

Watercolor by S. Auberle

"Go placidly amid the noise and the
haste, and remember what peace
there may be in silence."

- the Desiderata

Thursday, April 20, 2006


Photo/Collage by S. Auberle

It all began with a train whistle. And the Blue
Woman dream. If there were Academy Awards
for dreams, I would definitely be a serious
contender. This one, however, was quite short,
just a scene of a woman in front of a mirror,
painting her face blue. She seemed happy, very
into it, and she stopped and looked at me for awhile,
as if to say why don't you try this?

At that point I awoke, heard a train whistle, that
bluest of all sounds in the night, and sleep was gone.
I lay there, listening to the train, thought of
Billie Holiday, Hank Williams, that beautiful blue
god, Krishna, and the words to Mood Indigo, which
of course, I didn't know--other than:
You ain't been blue, no, no, no,
till you've had that mood indigo.

While I was not in an indigo mood at that time,
blue has been on my mind since. And then I went
to see the Blue Man Group. What a trip that is--if
you've not seen them, it's certainly something to
do once in your lifetime. As a friend remarked,
you can leave your drugs at home--what a treat
for the senses! I won't spoil it for you by going into
any detail, but I think they're onto something. I'm
just not sure what it is.

Question: how many of you writers/artists out
there regularly use your dreams as a rich source
of inspiration? And might it be, do you think, the
most authentic muse of all?

My blue muse continues to haunt me, though I don't
feel her inspiration has come through yet. Just stay
tuned, and be prepared for lots of blue.

"There is only one valuable thing in art, the thing
you cannot explain."
- George Braque

- mimi


Photo by S. Auberle


Sometimes, when a bird cries out,
or the wind sweeps through a tree,
or a dog howls on a far-off farm,
I hold still and listen a long time.

My world turns and goes back to the place
where, a thousand forgotten years ago,
the bird and the blowing wind
were like me and were my brothers.

My soul turns into a tree
and an animal, and a cloud bank,
then, changed and odd, it comes home,
and asks me questions. What should I reply?

- Herman Hesse

Wednesday, April 19, 2006


Photo by S. Auberle


there are gifts of snow
left on the mountain
finches sing brightly
in their nuptial plumage
wine-dark tulips are rising
and a flicker drums
on the roof beam
my cup runneth over

- mimi

Tuesday, April 18, 2006


Photo by S. Auberle

"Earth laughs in flowers."

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Monday, April 17, 2006


Photo by S. Auberle

I've returned from my sabbatical, probably
knowing less about the world than when I
left, but dazzled, oh so dazzled, by it's beauty.

We go away, sometimes, to find ourselves.
Find what is missing in our lives, what needs
work, attention, new breath. Maybe we go
away to try to fix things, make them better.
Perhaps we think we'll gain a new perspective
in a different place. And sometimes we do.

But other times it's best to drop all that and simply
be. I'm known for my fondness and need to
have be time. Time to lose myself in rain-washed
sunsets and tulips, listening to a loon's call out
in the cove. Watching for the pair of eagles
overhead. Imagining the great gray whales
somewhere out there, and thinking of their songs.
Being mesmerized by the peacock's "eyes."

On this trip none of my problems or the world's
got fixed.

But both my soul and I travel more lightly...

- mimi

Sunday, April 09, 2006

A Rose by Any Other Name

Photo collage by S. Auberle

"One ought, every day at least,
to hear a little song, read a good
poem, see a fine picture, and if it
were possible, to speak a few
reasonable words."
- Goethe

and now I'm really leaving...

- mimi

Saturday, April 08, 2006


Photo by S. Auberle

We really must talk,
but alas, not today.
I'm off for a week
to think and play.

(and, hopefully, write better
poetry than this)

- mimi

Friday, April 07, 2006


Photo by S. Auberle


I place words
on a page,
dance with them,
pray with them,
coax them
to cross the border
between your heart
and mine.

- mimi

Thursday, April 06, 2006


Abert's Squirrel - photo by S. Auberle

I was without internet service the past twenty four hours
and was positively squirrely! And how frightening is that?
Oh well, probably no more frightening than this article
from the local newspaper: (my title)


Despite a recent movie to the contrary, there is reason
to believe the macho Wild West lives on, in this case
demonstrated by a member of the female persuasion.

From the pages of the ever-shining Arizona Daily Sun:
Officers responded to Crazy Bill's Bar & Restaurant,
3130 E. Rt. 66, to find a victim suffering from a wound
to his head. Officers also noticed that the victim's truck
in the parking lot had been badly damaged. Witnesses
told officers that the victim's girlfriend had rammed her
van into the truck several times before leaving.

While I am certainly not making light of assault, I have to
confess to a certain amount of amusement in this
incident. Let's face it, friends, in a lifetime relationship, or
a lifetime of relationships, haven't there been moments...

All you readers who live in more civilized parts of the
country, I see you nodding ever so slightly.

The victim told officers that he and his girlfriend were
having trouble with their relationship, when she came
in and hit him with a beer bottle. He told officers he
considered their relationship now over.

And that's all folks--no guilt, no angst, no lengthy
and painful counseling. No agonizing, endless
conversations, speculations, possible compromises,
etc., etc. Just--done.

Hello, Simon & Garfunkel?

Tuesday, April 04, 2006


Photo by S. Auberle

"...visible beauty is a little mirror
for the beauty of being..."

- Czeslaw Milosz

Monday, April 03, 2006


Photo by S. Auberle

"Out in front, the "conscious mind,"
the ordered fields, the wide valley,
the tame woods. Behind, the
"unconscious"--this lush tangle of
life and death, full of danger, yet
where beautiful things move, the deer,
and where there is a spring of sweet,
pure water--buried!"

- Thomas Merton

Sunday, April 02, 2006


Digital photo collage by S. Auberle


is a strange place.
I am not old,
yet youth is surely gone.
It's an empty place, waiting
for the void to fill
and I wander through it,
a little frightened,
a little sad
that it all went so fast.
Before I learned wild
or who I really was.

- mimi