Thursday, October 31, 2013


Photo by S. Auberle


        a house
but for one window

old sheet music
since 1942

one dog
barking at the hidden moon

last sailing boats
moored in the harbor

autumn rain
blackening the road

wet, red leaves
            except in old love songs

Monday, October 21, 2013


Photo by S. Auberle


(a mostly found poem of titles on my bookshelf)

Living Out Loud
means Loving What Is--
the Grapes of Wrath
that Fool's Crow
Midnight in the Garden
   of Good and Evil

Senora, remember this--
Any Woman's Blues
can be An Unspoken Hunger
or The Sweetest Dream
they can be Beach Music
The Farming of Bones
Refuge   or    Poison  

these Wild Hearts
go on Hunting and Gathering
while The God of Small Things
and a Devil At Large
Line Dance on our backs
and An Unfinished Life          

            Never Let Me Go…

Thursday, October 17, 2013


Photo by S. Auberle


the smell of herb and flower
along the road wall…
stones tumbling down now
once carefully locked together
sun and shadow
skipping along the length

brawny were the men
who built this wall
digging the earth
hoisting  stones
their good sweat
their endless work
to make it work

they've gone to rest now
beneath other stones
old wives beside them
vines twining
up from earth
black as the crow
calling down night
declaring everything
is truly right

~  Sharon Auberle

Tuesday, October 15, 2013


Photo by S. Auberle

While enduring a garage cleaning this week, I found this photo which had been missing for years.  IsAbel Beaudoin was a great lady and an amazing, multi-talented artist.  The poem only tells a small portion of who she was...


“…originality above all else.”
                 ~  IsAbel Beaudoin 

It was all there, all that was left
of the passion that consumed her…

prints, metal sculptures, fabric, batiks;
Noah’s Ark—the procession of carved animals
marching across an entire wall;
handmade paper, cast and painted; 
a purple lady, tall and regal, like IsAbel herself,
oils, watercolors, acrylics,  pastels,
all the pieces shining as brightly as she. 

Two times I was privileged to meet her,
once, at her home, with bright batiks fluttering
from a clothes line in the sun
like flags announcing the country of art,
and then at the great show of her life’s work,
with treasures enough to fill a warehouse,
where she looked at me from her wheelchair,
smiled and said,  “I’d like to paint you in those blue beads…”

At eighty-seven, IsAbel began to fail.
Creation no longer emerged from those trembling hands,
and that is how we knew, her caregiver explains.
Except for one day, the woman says,
when she arrived to find a plain white cabinet
that held Isabel’s paints had been transformed. 
Tall trees danced on the doors and sides of the white box,
painted in a shaky hand, but vibrant and alive.

IsAbel never could bear a colorless world,
not when there was so much splendor in hers.

In Memoriam:  Isabel Beaudoin 1921-2009

Wednesday, October 02, 2013


Painting detail by S. Auberle

someone close to me just pointed out that the birds above, and in the below post are, in fact, cranes.  My only defense is that when I painted this in 2001, I didn't realize that geese do not fly with outstretched legs, as cranes do.  So these birds are cranes, which I also love, but I'm not changing the poem title.  Mea culpa...


Painting by S. Auberle

an old painting, an old poem, revised...originally published in Crow Ink...


Is it that old wish for flight that halts you on the street as vees of geese wing   overhead?  A stab of lonesome, quickened desire—what stops you?  Could it be the thought of another year slipping away from your life--once more that bare oak by the front door, Basho’s lone crow brooding again on a branch?  Raucous conversation drifts down from the sky--language of poetry, of passion, language of loss--that shivers down your back, but you huddle into your coat as rain begins, and hurry on into that life you were given, the only one you'll ever dare to know…