Saturday, March 30, 2013


Digitalized antique photo--photographer unknown


The sky is gray this Easter day
as Ohio skies tend to be,
but the air is soft
with promise, with lambent light
shining on hidden eggs
in nests of new spring grass.
From the kitchen smells of ham
and potatoes and pie
waft through the cool air.

The grandmothers wipe their hands
on Sunday aprons, watch
my boy and girl tumbling through the grass.
I watch them, memorizing
the worn lines of their faces
the comfort of those ample arms
that nurtured me, once and still.
Great-grandmothers now--
grandfathers gone on before them
to that place that beckons
this day of hope and resurrection.

Grandma Agnes takes a last pie
out of the oven, while I try
to gather up memories,
fading even as I watch, and
Grandma Ruth calls us in to dinner,
her good church dress soft
and flowing as soon-to-be-wings.


Wednesday, March 27, 2013


Photo by S. Auberle--"Morning Rose"
Even a dried rose looks beautiful in this new sun...

So I'm sitting out on the porch this morning, soaking up sun for the first time in months.  Birds are tentatively singing as if they are afraid to bring notice to themselves, roof gutters are running with water music and I am blissing out.  I glance down at the porch stones and watch a cricket crawl out from wherever she's been hiding all winter.  The effort seems to exhaust her and she appears to be doing just what I am--stretching out in the sun.  She doesn't move for the longest time and neither do I.  Finally, I get up to go in the house, which seems to startle the cricket and she springs up in (for her) a giant leap.   And I think we are both smiling...

Thursday, March 21, 2013


Photo by S. Auberle

An old poem I may have posted long ago, but it's how I'm feeling today...

And when you 
finally sit them down,
these busy little souls
with stars and suns
shining in their eyes
they want to know everything--
like who tore that moon in half,
and does the wind sing
trees to sleep, 
and they believe you understand
what this world is all about
when, in fact, you know
less each day, and suddenly
it doesn't seem important
to know any more,
even though they're looking
at you for answers
and you can only reply
love, just love...

~  mimi

Saturday, March 16, 2013


Photographer unknown

Happy Birthday to my beautiful would have been 100 today!

Friday, March 15, 2013


Internet Photo

So it seems as though nothing will change with the election of this new Pope.  And for a  brief moment, I had hoped...
I attended Catholic schools for 12 years, and to this day, because of Church teachings, I struggle to know that yes, I am just as good as a man..
This poem is an old one, about a conversation I should have had...

Sister, why can't I be an altar boy?
Because you're a girl, dear.
Sister, did you ever want to be a priest?
Oh no, my child, only men can be priests.
Women are not allowed on the altar, dear.
But Mary's mom goes up there and she even touches the altar.
The altar must be cleaned and dusted, my child,
and Mary's mother is  allowed the privilege of keeping it shining for God.
And is it a privilege to wash and iron the altar linens, Sister?
Oh yes, we women are the keepers of the House of our Lord.   We alone know how to care for it and we find joy in that.  Do you see, dear?
What is it draws you to the altar, my child?  Perhaps you might begin thinking of a vocation.
You mean I could be a priest?
Oh no, dear, I meant as a nun like myself, who proudly stands at the priest's side helping souls in their quest for heaven.
Then why, child, do you want to be an altar boy?
The bells, Sister, I would like to ring those shiny silver bells, make them sing like Danny does.
Tell me why, Sister, why are boys better at ringing bells than me?
I'm just as good as Danny.
Aren't  I?


Photo by S. Auberle

"When we tug at a single thing in nature,
we find it attached
to the rest of the world."
~  John Muir

Monday, March 11, 2013

MARCH 11, 1942

Photo by S. Auberle

March 11, 1942 - A day to be remembered...
"Jews, Gypsies, homosexuals, asocials, criminals and prisoners of war were gathered, stuffed into cattle cars on trains and sent to Auschwitz.
                                   ~  Google

Paris--first deportation of those to be murdered
are herded into train cars
this day, bound for Auschwitz--
the first of over one million to die there
and across the ocean in America
I am  born the day before.

Here stops my poem.  Seventy years later
what is left to say?  Again, I am just born...
I have the same number of words today
I had that first hour
as I lay there new and safe--
by the luck of some heavenly lottery
a long straw waving in my tiny fist.

Will it change anything
for me to remember
that Jewish child born the same day
in Paris, City of Love,
or the small Gypsy girl, the father
who stole milk to feed  them?
And should I say I'm sorry
and by the grace of some god
might they, somewhere, hear?
Will those two words change anything
in this world of instant everything?

Maybe the one word left to say
is the one word never to forget--

~  mimi