Monday, August 18, 2008


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


Blogger tom said...


9:41 PM  
Blogger Bruce Hodder said...

Ah, I think you got it pretty well there Sharon! But it's the perpetual anguish of the poet, isn't it? Or of a kind of poet? I saw a pigeon drinking rainwater from a puddle the other morning. I'm still trying to capture why I found that so beautiful.

2:55 AM  
Blogger Sharon Auberle said...

thanks, Tom. Enjoyed getting to know you, and look forward to a return visit soon.

Bruce, the poem is the fact that you found it beautiful. So few do. but we gotta keep tryin' because it really does matter

a lot...

12:19 PM  

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