A CLOWN POEM FOR A SUMMER DAY

Photo by S. Auberle

CLOWN

I dreamed of you

in billowing,

polka-dotted silk.

You honked

your nose at me,

flapped your feet,

declared I must

dance more, live loud,

never, ever make love

without laughter

and, occasionally,

wear really big shoes.

~  mimi

SUMMERTIME

Photo by S. Auberle

"The world is holy.

We are holy.

All life is holy.

Daily prayers are delivered

on the lips of breaking waves,

the whisperings of grasses,

the shimmering of leaves.

~  Terry Tempest Williams

SUMMER HAIKU

Digitalized photo by S. Auberle

how quiet---

at the bottom of the lake

peaks of clouds

~  Issa

TEMPEST

Photo by S. Auberle

The only sounds this morning in this eerie quietude are low, growling thunder in the west and one gay bird singing.  The sky is painted in ominous shades of indigo and yellow.  I am uneasy, for it may be that when the clouds open wide enough, primitive gods emerge, and some ancient strand of DNA remembers and trembles before them.   As it should be, for then, for a little while, we humans are humbled, know it is not we who rule.  Thoughts usually veiled in bright sunshine begin creeping forth, parting the broody air--things we avoid, things that should remain hidden.  Jagged spears of lightning  cleave the sky, their after-thunder rattling the ground beneath me.  I'm--yes admit it--scared and suddenly it's too dark to see the keyboard before me.   Now comes the deluge and wind.  Outside a tiny spider clings to a thread under the eaves.  Perhaps she is small enough to go unnoticed by these mighty gods.  I pray the tender rosebush bent now to the ground will be overlooked.  Once upon a time I trusted there was someone who kept the spider, the rose, and me safe.  l would like to remember again to believe.  

thunder gods bellow

one bird begins again

singing

FATHER'S DAY RAMBLINGS

Photo by S. Auberle


A different sort of Father's Day--I am alone, no family about and though I miss them, still it's a good day for appreciation and gratitude.  So this morning I arose quite early--5:00 a.m. to the tune of an unknown feathered whistler out my door, and after a quick bite to eat, drove to my favorite secret place where I sat on the crunchy beach made of thousands and thousands of tiny, crushed zebra mussel shells, and watched the ferries criss-crossing Death's Door.  Two men came by, also solitary and we exchanged greetings.  I then drove to a favorite coffee shop, where I had the most delectable rhubarb streusel muffin made by Char, and several cups of fine coffee while Joe, the very large white resident poodle nudged me every now and then.  Sadly, Joe (as in "cuppa Joe") recently lost his long-time companion Art (as in fine art).  Char and her husband, whose name I can't recall--but it might be Dewey, once ran a wonderful gallery and coffee shop here--thus the names "Art & Joe" which happen to be on their license plates as well.  UnfortunateIy the art part is now closed, but the fine bakery and coffee shop remain.  If you are in northern Door, do stop in--on the outskirts of Gill's Rock. I then, (shamelessly--I'm a writer, what can I say?) eavesdropped on the conversation at the next table, where a woman sat, adoring her frail father.  I could feel exactly her thoughts as they ate cherry Danish and laughed.  She, wondering how many more days do I get to be with him?  He, appreciating just the moment--which seems to be a gift that comes with age, though, in spite of my years I've not yet managed to get the knack of.  At any rate, this being Father's Day, I began counting my blessings--starting with the two fathers left in my life--son and son-in-law--beautiful men who have blessed me with five strong and wonderful grandsons who may, one day, be fathers as well (and two beautiful, talented granddaughters).  I am so proud of  both of you--who truly know and live the meaning of "father."  I never really knew my own father, but I do know he loved me and that, in the end, is what counts, isn't it?  And there was a fine man who came along when I was grown, who became a good and kind stepfather to me.  So I am a lucky woman.  I finished the scrumptious muffin, and drove down the road to my favorite meditation garden/Asian gallery--Linden's Gallery--again, if you are in this part of the Door, do not miss this exquisite place.   I spent a long time among the plants, trying to catch a photo of bumblebees and hummingbirds in a patch of lavender, never having success, but in the end discovered on a flower photo a tiny garden spider invisible to my photographing eye, till I printed it out and there she was!  I'm sure there's a lesson there--something about unexpected gifts, and the like.  I went into the gallery then, and could not resist buying an unexpected gift for me-- a beautiful Tibetan "summer bracelet."  Browsing then among the serene Buddhas and Kuan Yins, feeling such peace I wanted to curl up on an ancient rug and nap, I thought it best to return home where I fell asleep in the sun, listening to the same friendly bird who had awakened me at dawn…

ELEGANT

Photo by S. Auberle

found this photo of an Elegant Trogon, while going through old  files--one of my first attempts at digiscope photography.  Such an elegant bird!  Found only in this country in far southeastern Arizona...and since this photo was taken there was a serious fire in that habitat, so don't know if he is there any longer...

only birds

sing the music of heaven

in this world

~  Kobayashi Issa

Japanese, 1763-1827

translation Robert Hass

THINGS I QUESTION

Photo by S. Auberle

THINGS I QUESTION

...how it might be to live as siblings

with beast and flower, not as oppressors"

~  Denise Levertov

the mosquito, the mud-dauber--

her snug home on my front door frame

the loathsome earwig

these I obliterate

with hardly a pause, yet

the Luna moth splattered

on my windshield

the red fox flattened

on the road

for these I grieve...

who made me judge and jury?

and why is it these creatures

we find despicable

though they are simply

going about their busyness

is it only beauty we revere?

or is it beauty--the loss of it

for which we mourn?

mimi

IN THE NIGHT GARDEN

Photo by S. Auberle

in the night garden

summer

brushes my hair

smooths tangles

from the strands

of my soul...

~  mimi