Thursday, August 30, 2007


Photo/collage by S. Auberle

Wind rising high and fast tonight,
big storms rolling through.
Five candles blaze on the hearth like a prayer.
I like the way fire burns away the years
the way it takes me back to who we were then,
how it makes me want to ask
and did I make you happy, love?
I was happy then, in summer storms
back in those southern hills
when we sat in the dark, like tonight,
children close and warm in our laps,
happy, even when I knew
after every rain the well pump would quit
and we'd be out there in the night, drenched,
you trying to fix it, me holding a flashlight
both asking why we ever moved to the country
but then leaves would paint their wet gold
on every tree all the way down to our creek
and in the new, shiny morning we'd hear geese
calling from Jessie's farm and we'd laugh
at their honky tonk music while all around us
people we would soon mourn
still walked in that astonishing light.
- mimi

Tuesday, August 28, 2007


Photo by S. Auberle


The curse of a writer (at least this writer) is being absolutely unable to tune out other people's conversations. Some might call this eavesdropping. I call it a found poem:

We met while teaching rats to play basketball.

He stood on the mountain, all rough and shaggy, hair wild in the wind and said: come here, sweetheart. And I did.

So I said to him: look, Sam, we're just gonna have to put us on the shelf for awhile, you know what I mean? But he didn't.

She was born in County Clare and was always cold. They're going to live in Tucson now where he'll keep her warm forever.

Did I tell you he kissed the back of my neck when I wasn't paying attention?

Imagine this, Rose, after bingo he said to me, look the moon is full tonight, let's go dance under the lemon tree.

When he tried to pet a bee, Sara told me she knew she was lost.

So I go: okay, Michael, teach me to ride bareback. And he goes: Annie, it's really easy. You just lean, whisper, tense, relax. Do it all with your body.

They adored each other. And then Jack died, and two years later Eva shyly told me she was seeing someone else. At the age of 94 she said she'd never marry him, he would drive her crazy. And besides, he was only 85, too young.

The moment I heard my first love story
I started looking for you,
not knowing how blind that was.
Lovers don't finally meet somewhere.
They're in each other all along.
- Rumi

Sunday, August 26, 2007


Photo by S. Auberle
"Many psychologists have speculated the evolved spirit does not become married to any particular viewpoint." This intriguing statement is from a wonderful newsletter called Robert GennTwice Weekly Letter, a newsletter for artists, but all can be applied to any of the artistic paths. I highly recommend it. If you're interested, contact him at
But back to the original statement which has me pondering. Alright, I have numerous viewpoints in my life: I'm against the war, all wars; I'm for peace; eagles (thus the photo); healing the earth; the importance of meditation, music and poetry; arts taught in schools; and on and on. You get the picture. I don't want to weaken my attachment to any of them. So I guess you could say I'm "married" to my viewpoints.
Now I'm supposed to divorce them? I certainly would like to consider myself on the path to becoming evolved,though, doubtless, that will take many more lives to reach my goal. Couldn't my viewpoints and I just be "engaged?" Okay, no. How about going steady? I could wear their rings around my neck. Go out on warm summer nights and...oops, getting off the point here.
Not even that? Alright, alright, I'll settle for kissin' cousins, best buds. But don't EVER tell me I have to change my viewpoint on war. Peace and I will NEVER divorce. Therefore, I may never evolve.
So be it...
- mimi

Saturday, August 25, 2007


Photo by S. Auberle

in the green wood
Crow calls rain coming
drops soon begin falling
drought-stricken leaves
curl on the path,
into vessels of holy water
trees all open mouths and arms
wayfarers to rest
in their mossy laps
to the embrace of rough roots
damp, entwined limbs whispering:
come, you won't be sorry...

Thursday, August 23, 2007


Photo/Collage by S. Auberle

Misty, moody light this morning. A long, lean fox walked out of the mist early, thought himself unseen. But I saw, and then found in my reading an early Japanese poem which seems perfect for this kind of day. It's from a beautiful book called Walking to Where the River Ends. The poem is a translation of an eighth century painter/poet's words named Wang Wei:

one morning a shape departed
the shadow remains
endless is the mist and sea between us
look there where I watch for you
clouds float alone
-translation by Mary de G. White

Tuesday, August 21, 2007


Photo by S. Auberle

While walking in the too-soon autumn woods, this poem arrived:

Hello...nice day...
the economy of words
is uttered quickly by a stern woman
on the path, almost grudgingly
and I wonder why she bothers
to speak at all,but I smile,
reply and trudge onward.
My muse appears to be
in the same frame of mind,
though finally releasing,
after endless silent weeks,
a few paltry words
I cup in eager hands.
Poems should be overflowing,
rich and dripping with butter,
wine and hearty cloves of garlic
clinging to them.
These few words are melba toast,
celery,and vegetable broth.
So how, I hear you asking, did this poem
suddenly jump to a food metaphor?
Oops, here comes another one:
poems should be scented
with rain and roses and cloves
and hearty man-smells like baking bread
and woodsmoke-scented shirts,
they should be silky and furry
like an old yellow dog or your chest
where I love to bury my nose.
They should be singing
the Hallelujah Chorus
or Rollin' in My Sweet Baby's Arms.
Poems should be red and hot pink
and glowing orange tongues of fire
and now, clearly, I see,
this poem is completely out of control
so I attempt to rein it in, except
here comes a horse metaphor
galloping haphazardly down the trail
where the stern woman crouches in fear
at an approaching mad rider
with one clearly disturbed muse hanging on,
the poet trailing an abundance
of outrageously juicy metaphors
in her (one last absurd metaphor) wake...
- mimi

Sunday, August 19, 2007


Digital photo-image by S. Auberle

Imagination is more important
than knowledge.
- Albert Einstein

Friday, August 17, 2007


Digitally altered photo by S. Auberle

Since I am, temporarily I hope, without words again, I'll let my images and the words of others speak for me:
What it is that dwelleth here
I know not
but my heart is full of awe
and the tears trickle down.
- 11th Century Japanese poem
from Zen Seeing, Zen Drawing by Frederick Franck

Monday, August 13, 2007


Don't know the artist, this is my T-shirt...

The days

run away

like wild horses

over the hills.

- Charles Bukowski

Friday, August 10, 2007


Photo by S. Auberle - The Badlands
While I did not pass here today, this is the neck of the woods, as they say where I'm from, that I was near--the Badlands of South Dakota. Very cool place.
Yesterday was interesting, to say the least. Maybe I should have had a clue as to what was to come, as I passed through Last Chance, Colorado in the morning. The name did give me pause, but then I dismissed it and enjoyed the scenery and the names: Custer and Buffalo County and Broken Bow, Nebraska; endless acres of cows and corn and those round hay bales that remind me of Monet's paintings; the sign in Sargent, Nebraska announcing the Sargent Fair and Chokecherry Jamboree (world's only;) the chorus of cicadas loudly serenading the August morning at the rest stop in Julesburg, Colorado.
All this was quite cool. Or, more accurately, hot--95 degrees all across Nebraska. But then came the dark and stormy night--as in It Was A Dark and Stormy Night...
A quick check-in into the hotel in O'Neill, Nebraska as the sky got darker and darker in the West, but still okay--no rain falling. I had, however, only been in my room a few minutes when there came a knock on the door--the hotel manager, informing all guests to come downstairs and take cover, this is a tornado WARNING, meaning a tornado has been spotted approaching. At exactly this moment, the town sirens go off, and I waste no time joining all the other hotel guests for a social evening spent in the hallways. As the TV is announcing that "this is a dangerous cell with rotation," the screen suddenly goes blank. Not a good sign. Hail is clattering against windows, the doors are straining to open to the wind, trees are bending in 60 mph winds and rain is dropping in circular sheets. Very, very scary. But the TV comes back on, with new sirens and buzzers sounding and announcements of where tornadoes have been spotted, how long to stay under cover, what to do, etc. At last, after an hour and a half of this, by which time we all know far more about each other than one would wish, the all-clear siren sounds. And a grateful group of weary, more-scared-than-we-want-to-admit- travelers return to our rooms for the night.
And then, as if that wasn't enough, in the middle of the night, my smoke alarm begins chirping loudly, announcing failure of the battery. The front desk phone line is busy, so I sleepily make my way downstairs for help, or a screwdriver, or something--before I rip the thing out of the wall. The desk clerk returns with me, pushes the buttons several times, setting it to shrieking once, then announces that it is fixed. Of course I knew it wasn't, but I was too sleepy to argue with her. An hour later, off it goes again. By the time I've packed up all my gear and moved to a new room at 2:00 a.m., I'm beginning to have second thoughts about dismissing those words this morning so lightly...

Wednesday, August 08, 2007


Photo by S. Auberle
Even though I've left the art of Canyon Road behind, still there is art wherever you look. This is a hollyhock, growing beside the stone wall of the hotel I'm staying in tonight, in Limon, Colorado. It's hot here, and dusty and trucks are roaring by.
Yet, here is a pink-skirted, exquisite lady in the midst of all this.
Once again over the high plains of Colorado. Once again nothing but hawks and sunflowers and antelope. Once again, this very cool country we live in and take for granted.
"We do not see things as they are; we see them as we are."
- Anais Nin

Tuesday, August 07, 2007


Photo by S. Auberle
No, I'm not in Shangri-La, but am in one of my favorite spots that could pass for that fabled place--Santa Fe, New Mexico. Canyon Road, to be exact, the home of an incredible amount of art and beauty and people who appreciate both. Santa Fe, I am told, is surpassed only by New York city as a center for art in this country. I am always in awe of the ideas I see here and the unique expression of them and how art touches a place in our souls that is untouched by anything else.
We CANNOT let the arts continue to decline in importance in our schools and in this country. Without art, the soul fades for lack of nourishment.
The art does not have to be of this quality, each individual has within them the capacity to create--through words, images, song, clay--whatever medium you choose. Bring it forth, share it or not, but see how your life is enriched...
- mimi

Saturday, August 04, 2007

Self Portrait #413

Photo by S. Auberle

"All good photographs
are self portraits."
- Elizabeth Opalenik
Not sure if I'm the mama or the baby duck...
I just like the photo. It makes me smile.
- mimi

Thursday, August 02, 2007


Photo by S. Auberle
" the holy, eternal stillness of each moment,
may we each cherish
the world we inhabit,
returning the gift of life
with our reflection of appreciation.
For even the stars in heaven will wither,
and it would be a supreme waste of beauty
were we not to dance and sing
beneath them while we can."
- Sam Piper
(My friend Sam, the author of this beautiful quote, yesterday lost a beloved member of his family. In the midst of grief, he was able to write these exquisite words. I am in awe of their power and beauty, and feel honored to share them with you.)

Wednesday, August 01, 2007


Photo by S. Auberle

from my window
Sunday evening
late summer:
rain curving down the glass
an orange hummingbird
a murder of crows
winging silently
past blue mountains
the green lime
in my rum and coke
I stir and sip
while contemplating
life and death
and the colors
bright and dark
of love...
- mimi