Saturday, August 30, 2008


Photo by S. Auberle
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

Friday, August 29, 2008


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

Wednesday, August 27, 2008


Photo by S. Auberle
"Art is the stored honey of the human soul,
gathered on wings of misery and travail."
- Theodore Dreiser
it's this sign, up in the North country,
which just makes you stop and smile.

Monday, August 25, 2008


Photo by S. Auberle

so soon come
the shortening days...
fox fur
Jane's apples
to hang heavy
one maple already
red harbinger
of long white
to come
- mimi

Wednesday, August 20, 2008


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."

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

Tuesday, August 12, 2008


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

Thursday, August 07, 2008


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...
- 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...

Tuesday, August 05, 2008


Photo by S. Auberle

"Poetry is just the evidence of life.
If your life is burning well,
poetry is just the ash."
- Leonard Cohen

Friday, August 01, 2008


Unknown artist- Santa Fe
"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