AND THESE THY GIFTS

Photo by S. Auberle

AND THESE THY GIFTS

for Maggie

She weighs it in her hand--

the day to come--the grace

of morning light on cracked pitcher

the scarlet of rose hips

from which she will make tea

the yellow of eggs, the blue plate.

Then, as in every day of her life,

she crosses herself

folds small, strong hands

and prays thanks

to her white-bearded god

who must surely soften

just a little, as he watches...

HOW TO GET THROUGH A DAY WHEN ALL THE TALK IS OF WAR

Photo by S. Auberle

In the midst of all this saber rattling, an old poem of mine...

First you notice the mellow afternoon,

with the oak glowing bronze

by your front door and one last bee,

drunk on September and fallen apples,

weaving down your window screen.

Then you might try

frying an onion and lots

of garlic in some olive oil.

While that fragrance is luring

all manner of creatures to your door,

you could puree two cans

of Caribbean-style black beans

with about one half can of chicken broth,

then mix it all together, along

with the rest of the can of broth

to heat through.  Add a dollop

of sour cream in each bowl and

serve with red wine, some olives,

a green salad with the hint of oil and vinegar,

and a fresh, crusty French baguette

that you must tear apart in the best spirit

of breaking bread—with an old lover,

or a friend who knew you when.

Alone is good, too, with Bach

and a book of poems.

Then indulge, enjoy, surrender

to this moment that is all there is,

to the bee, the oak, the falling night,

to this prelude of smoky light,
golden against evening shadows...

SUMMER PASSING

Photo by S. Auberle

A cold wind is comingn down out of the north today...it won't last, I know, but is surely a sign.  This is an older piece which was published in "Haibun Today" which seems just right...

SUMMER PASSING

The sky is filled with terns tonight, their red bills arrowing down into the water.  Fishing boats wend their way home to the harbor, while on the dock a small boy runs, heedless of dark and danger.   His father scoops him up at the edge.  Old men sit alone.  Two women wrap shawls about their white shoulders.  For a moment there is silence, all pausing to watch an impossibly pink moon rise up out of the lake.  Behind the village, sunset paints indigo slashes across the sky.   Lights are coming on, one by one, in the deserted streets.  Even the corner tavern is quiet, and the wind, thinking of turning northward, stills itself for awhile.   

                                   from somewhere

                       on the other side of the world

                                  autumn approaches