GIFT

Photo by S. Auberle

LOVE APPLE

In this time of ripening

a gift awaits you...

that first tomato,

freshly offered

by the garden goddess.

Round, rich, tangy,

flesh succulent, warm.

Under this August sun

nibble, lick juice

and seeds from your hands,

thank Her.

- mimi

WHAT IS LIFE?

Photo by S. Auberle

"What is life? It is the flash of a firefly

in the night.

It is the breath of a buffalo in wintertime.

It is the little shadow which runs across

the grass and loses itself in the sunset."

- Crowfoot

Blackfoot warrior & spokesman

ART IS

Photo by S. Auberle

"Art is the stored honey of the human soul,

gathered on wings of misery and travail."

- Theodore Dreiser

or

it's this sign, up in the North country,

which just makes you stop and smile.

AUGUST EVENING

Photo by S. Auberle

so soon come

the shortening days...

fox fur

thickening

Jane's apples

beginning

to hang heavy

one maple already

turning

red harbinger

of long white

to come

- mimi

WENDELL BERRY

Photo by S. Auberle

I think I've posted this little excerpt from Wendell Berry's

"Manifesto: the Mad Farmer Liberation Front" before.

But it's worth reading again in these insane days...

"As soon as the generals and the politicos

can predict the motion of your mind,

lose it. Leave it as a sign

to mark the false trail, the way

you didn't go.

Be like the fox

who makes more tracks than necessary,

some in the wrong direction.

Practice resurrection."

IN THE KEWEENAW

Photo by S. Auberle

Lake polished stones

tumble from pockets,

words from pen, though

I can't seem to capture them

or hold onto that full moon

rising from behind the spire of St. Anne.

I've brought paints and brushes

fine papers to record my stay,

commit time and memories

to a permanence of sorts,

but how do you tell the story

of this warm August night.

the perfect sound of Pavarotti,

the cool, dark wind

rushing through tall windows?

How do I paint the blessing of bells

ringing through the sky?

How transcribe this loft

awash in morning light,

this sudden fog rolling in from the lake,

that afternoon of play in wild blueberries

beside shore-crashing waves?

Once there was an interlude

when all in the world of this poet

was holy, was right...

- mimi

LIKE PARIS

Photo by S. Auberle

No, it's not Paris., but it reminds me of Paris, in some colorful way...and it's living in town, which is new to me. In a little loft in a little town up in the Keweenaw Peninsula. Which, by the way, has some of the most spectacular scenery in the country. Lake Superior is, in a word--superior. And this is the view from the artist-in-residence quarters, where a fellow poet and I are staying for the week. Bells, bells, from the surrounding churches, many of which are not churches anymore, but take me right back to childhood. Two wonderful cafes right across the street--a sensational art gallery beneath--Miskwabik Ed Gray Gallery. A reading Friday night, guess I'd better get to work and write something. In this place it's not difficult...

- mimi

BEING THERE

Photo by S. Auberle

You will note I've not identified the location of the above photo because of threats from a dear friend of mine. She swears bodily harm to me if I describe the location of her private paradise on my blog. Suffice it to say it's "Up North." Which is where I'm heading for the next week or so, so may not have internet to post. In the meantime a quote from an old favorite show of mine--"Northern Exposure." They just don't make 'em like that anymore...
cheers,
- mimi

"I think when you are somewhere,

you oughta BE there,

'cause it's not about how long

you stay in a place,

it's about what you do while you're there.

And, when you go, will the place

where you've been be any better off

for you're having been there?"

- Chris-In-The-Morning:

Love, Life,

and the Whole Karmic Enchilada...

POETRY

Photo by S. Auberle

"Poetry is just the evidence of life.

If your life is burning well,

poetry is just the ash."

- Leonard Cohen

WHAT POETS DO

Unknown artist- Santa Fe

WHAT POETS DO

"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

No wind today,

lake a quiet, faded blue.

Out on the pier a poet stands

watching colors of swollen clouds,

the light filtering down from them,

a black ship crossing the horizon.

She stands for a long time

just listening, watching, dreaming,

because this is what poets do

and centuries are passing

with every breath she takes

and new stars are being born

and all around her

women are birthing new poets

miniature heart-fists pulsing

with desire, eager to begin

transcribing their music,

their laments and celebrations

of the conduct of love.

- mimi