For 2017

Digitalized photo by S. Auberle

January One

Another year to mend those fences if you can,        

those tattered hearts,  to water grass on this side    

till it's as green as the other.

Let us have champagne and pickled herring,

a chunk of rye bread and poems for breakfast.

Let that pale sun rise far to the south

and ice creep up north windows.

           

                        My African friend says

                        I wish u best of d best…        

Funny how beliefs fall away as we age---

dreams, ideas, salvations,

all dropped along the way

till there's just this --

cold ash in the fireplace

an empty wine bottle,

           

            still there are rainbows

            scattered on the ceiling

            from a crystal someone gave me

            long ago, and hope --

                            always there is hope --

                            that this year will bring us peace   

                            and that thing we most desire     

                            and may they be the same,

                            forever may they be the same.

The Morning After

Photo by S. Auberle

On a morning like this, after you awaken to the deep silence of snow, the first thing is to dress in your warmest red robe and tall, furry boots.  Yes, in the house, boots are necessary till the chill of the rooms is lessened.  Then you must prepare a steaming bowl of oatmeal and top it with a pat of real butter, some brown sugar, warmed blueberries, a handful of nuts and, lastly, some honest cream.  With this in hand you go to your favorite chair by the window and watch the light come up on the pristine, trackless snow.  Even the footprints of the deer you saw last night in the storm, nibbling at the bird feeders seeds, are erased.  No cars, no plow has gone by yet.  It is just you and the peace of winter.  You remember other snow times, perhaps you as a child, making snow angels, sledding that steep hill down toward the creek and missing it, usually.  That pungent wet smell of wool mittens and ice-encrusted snow suits.  Maybe the time you sat with your golden dog on a bench, staring at the white canvas before you, mourning your mother. The evening walks you would take with her after a fresh snowfall, with the scent of pinyon fires all around.   Now no one any more to tell you to be careful out there, and put on your mittens…  The winters you spent in the Colorado and Arizona mountains come to mind now,  with those tall Ponderosa pines framing peaks out your window.  Your clumsy attempts at skiing.  Nights in front of the fire and the Christmas tree, with loved ones now gone from your life.  All this just waiting for you to return back to those other times…forgetting the power losses, the icy turnover, the off road slides, an unforgiving ditch or two.  Happily gone, forgotten -- remaining only peace, a lightening in the eastern sky and a steaming, hearty bowl of oatmeal. . .  

Photo by S. Auberle

And Still, the Roses

Rising this morning at my usual time before dawn, I look out the window to see a small light moving down the road, slowly, but steadily forward.  The beacon of it lights only one or two steps ahead.  Clearly, it's a walker at this early hour when the dark is deepest.  Man or woman, I can't tell.  But they seemed determined, holding a steady pace, and I marvel at their sure steps in such blackness.

There have been great winds blowing across the land for days.  Some are gleefully calling them winds of change.  Many are calling them winds of mourning.  All the while a great moon is setting out over the bay, leaving behind its faint glow.  Across the pewter-colored sky, light is rising in the east.

Later, passing by Joel's Coffee Shop, I notice pink roses still blooming in his front garden.   At our Sunday gathering deep purple chrysanthemums adorn the small altar.

Next to me sits my friend, who grew up in Nazi-occupied Denmark.  She is very frightened today, as am I, and no words of comfort come to me that will reassure her.  We, and the congregation, look to our speaker this morning for words of wisdom, for help on how to find good in this dark time.  It is written that everything is holy he says.  Everything is a miracle.  I want to believe this, take these words into my heart to help me go forward.  It feels nearly impossible.  I think of the walker this morning with that small light shining out ahead into darkness.  I don't know if it was man, woman, or angel.  I hold onto this picture for now.  I embrace it till I can believe again that everything is holy and that there are miracles all around us, if only we have the eyes to see.

For now, it is November, winter is near upon us.  Yet still, small roses are blooming before the time of long dark settles in …

~  Sharon Auberle

    November 13, 2016

Good Friday

Art by S. Auberle

ON GOOD FRIDAY AT CALVARY CEMETERY

Mary Theresa is being laid to rest.

Out north of town the mountain

towers, brown in a dry season,

only a pale crown of white at the peak.

Mourners are gathering at the casket

while I chase my granddaughter

over graves warm in the afternoon sun.

In her dress the color of the sky,

she is a small chalice, filled with light.

Mariah is just learning language

and over and over she calls out

her newest word … angel …

She sees angels everywhere --

holding a delicate egg in Easter grasses,

offering a tulip, next to the small Pinocchio

guarding a spirit child, but she only bends to look,

knowing someone needs it more than her.

Mariah hugs a teddy bear, abandoned carelessly,

as a baby would have left it in life,

dances with windchimes hanging from branches,

considers the lilies beneath and

watching her, I feel the weight of mortality

slipping from my shoulders,

down into the warm earth that waits for Mary,

where Isaac and Jincy, Elijah and Annie,

Leo and Baby Annalise already rest and I,

walking quickly past their stones,

whisper my apologies.

Bird, Mariah sings, and tree

and behind me there is weeping

and a faint prayer drifting on the wind

off the mountain.  My long black skirt

holds me back, but I want to run

away from Death's empty vessel,

up to that snowy peak, see Seraphim

and white rabbits and risen gods,

hear Mary laugh once more and tell me

if you're lucky enough to be born Irish

then you're lucky enough …

Yet might this not be heaven right down here?

Could this be all that is really needed --

this lucky moment when my arms are filled

with singing child and sunlight

and silky mountain breezes?

~ S. Auberle

an old piece, but one that calls to me this Easter season..

CHIMAYO, HOW IT USED TO BE

Photo by S. Auberle

after my recent visit to Chimayo, I have to post this old piece...

CHIMAYO

Down Juan Medina road, I drive into the small green valley of Chimayo on a hot, August day at noon.  Father Rocca's mission bell is chiming twenty one times as I find an old stone bench near a statue of the crucified Christ, to eat my chicken burrito with green chile and a bowl of Leona's fine posole.  Giant cottonwoods shade me, the acequia sings quietly over stones.  Christ looks on, heavily laden with rosaries and photos, notes and message-inscribed rocks at His feet.  Doves coo softly from the tower.  Across the road, under the Holy Chile sign, Carlos beckons me--come in and taste his chile, he says.  Inside I meet his mama, feeding a child.  Do what you love--it is good for you and those you love.  Though I didn't ask, Carlos seems compelled to give me advice--everybody hurry--not good.  It occurs to me that I'll be unable to leave without a purchase of his chile and so I buy a small bag.  Ah, a picnic!  Carlos beams--with one of those little transistor radios, you know--the kind with just two batteries, a bottle of Cappellini wine--mix my chile with a little bit of honey, put on some fish and grill them…  He takes my hand then, looking into my eyes for the longest time.  I'm not sure how to escape, but finally Mama clears her throat and I turn back into the hot afternoon wondering what just happened.  Christ is still there, under the cottonwood; Father Rocca is crossing the dusty plaza and down along the acequia a faint, tinny music is playing--exactly like one of those little transistor radios… 

Christmas Eve

Photo by S. Auberle

My traditional Christmas Eve message, a day early this year, as I'll be busy tomorrow eve.  Fra Giovanni's letter, written in 1513, still says all I would like to say, only better.  I wish for you, my friends, a peaceful and blessed holiday, and drink a toast to your health and happiness in 2016!

I salute you. I am your friend and my love for you goes deep. There is nothing I can give you which you have not got. But there is much, very much, that while I cannot give it, you can take. No heaven can come to us unless our hearts find rest in today. Take heaven! No peace lies in the future which is not hidden in this present little instance. Take peace! The gloom of the world is but a shadow. Behind it, yet within our reach, is joy. Take joy! Life is so full of meaning and purpose, so full of beauty...that you will find earth but cloaks your heaven. Courage then to claim it, that is all! And so I greet you, with profound esteem and with the prayer that for you, now and forever, the day breaks and the shadows flee away.

                           ~ Fra Giovanni, Christmas Eve, 1513

In Memoriam

Photo by S. Auberle

DECEMBER, 1941

I imagine my mother that night

December 7, 1941,

listening to the radio:

Glenn Miller’s String of Pearls,

Edward R. Murrow, wishing the world

good night and good luck,

breaking news…

the bombing of Pearl Harbor.

My mother’s hands are folded

on the mound that is me,

that pulsating cord connecting us.

Do I sense her fear,

feel the tightening, the pain?

Beneath her dress I float,

extending a hand, a foot now and then,

wanting reassurance, perhaps

that all will be well

and my mother strokes her belly,

thinking of Japanese women

and their babies soon to be born,

as I will be three months later…

I have not yet lived long enough

to see world peace.

So many never have the chance.

~  Sharon Auberle

an old poem I haven't posted for awhile, but it seems a good time to do so...

Mixed Media by S. Auberle

NO MAN’S LAND

December 24, 1914 – the last known Christmas Truce 

Somewhere in Belgium

a German soldier, his face

not so different from yours,

lays down his gun   

steps out of the trenches

and begins singing…

            Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,

            Alles in schlaft, einsam wacht

The man is very cold

and very, very brave.

In the stink of blood and mud

he knows what love is.

He listens for the hiss of bullets,

the rattle of artillery fire,

then realizes the night has grown silent.

            ‘round yon Virgin, Mother and child

            Holy Infant so tender and mild

Other soldiers join him

in that No Man’s Land between,

their raw voices cracking in the cold.

Soon British soldiers begin

laying down their weapons,

joining in the hymn.    They bring gifts

of cigarettes and drinks to share.

Perhaps the men touch,

reach out shaking hands

that no longer hold death,

instead, pour tin cups of whiskey,

send smoke up to the stars

like prayers to a god, in whom,

forever after, if  they survive,

they want to still believe. 

            Sleep in heavenly peace…

~  Sharon Auberle

THANKS GIVING

Photo by S. Auberle

an old post, yes, but a good one for Thanksgiving...

THANKSGIVING PRAYER

Among other wonders of our lives, we are alive with one another,

we walk here in the light of this unlikely world that isn't ours for long.

                                                                          ~  John Daniel

Friend, the road is the destination…so they say, but my destination this morning is a sunny meadow.  The air is crisp, a bit of frost lingers on leaves beneath my feet and a little north wind teases at me.  Across the field, and into crow-talking woods for a while--I am warmer in here, out of the wind.  The trail winds deeper through tall trees, past old settlers' discard heaps.  The crows and I converse for a while, then, wing to wing, they fly off into late autumn blue, and I return to the dry grass meadow and its ancient apple trees.  Here and there hangs a yellow or red globe, a bright spot of color in the dead branches.  Garlands of bittersweet drape their bright orange against a cerulean sky.  Small, abandoned nests dot the trees and a mud-dauber house hangs heavy in a branch, its swirls and patterns  exquisitely fashioned.  At my feet grasses are hollowed out, where deer have bedded down in the night.  A dog barks somewhere, far off.  I am just another child grown old, yet my heart still beats, lungs take in air, legs carry me over the land--what gifts--what blessings!  The fourteenth century mystic, Meister Eckhart, said if the only prayer you said in your whole life was thank you, it would suffice.  And today I kneel in cold grass, whispering my two word love poem…over and over and over.

Happy Thanksgiving to all my family and friends...

FOR ANNIE

Photo by S. Auberle

ALMOST CENTENARIAN

Annie turns 99 today -- soon she'll be just another star, looking down and wondering what on earth all the fuss was about.  Her house is filled with paper lanterns, her black and white photos, rocks and bones and birdwings.   For her birthday I think I'll take her a bowl of sweet cherries, though she never believed that about life.  Just like she never believed she'd live to be 99.  Survived cancer twice, heart attacks, yet whenever you left, instead of goodbye, Annie always said cheers!  As if it was enough to wish it, she didn't have to believe.  On the day Pavarotti died, she called to tell me that once, upon hearing him in person, she nearly fainted.  These days small Annie grows smaller by the moment, and rarely speaks.  Perhaps, after all this time, there is nothing left to say.   Annie has fierce masks hanging on her walls and owls watch her, she once said, from the forest outside her windows.  I don't know for sure if she speaks their language, but it wouldn't surprise me.  Or dragonfly, perhaps.  I asked Annie one day if she believed in a god.  I don't remember her answer, but I doubt that she does.  Maybe as her time draws near, she's reconsidering that.  Or perhaps she's just enjoying this cool west wind today that sets the lanterns to dancing and the birdwings preparing to take flight…

(I wrote this piece a few months back, Annie died yesterday)

RIP Annie R.  1916-2015

Photo art by S. Auberle

AUTUMN MORNING

fine as any

ever seen

you step out

your door

breathe    smile

at your good fortune

to be alive

and then

in the orchard

you see her

a doe    limping pitifully

among the trees

her delicate foreleg

bent and broken…

no graceful leap

away into sunrise

no flag of white tail

flashing

only her neck 

bowed    weary

you want so badly

to do something…

enfold her in your arms

feed and heal her

you try to grasp

how such a thing

can be on a day

as fine as this

but the best you can do

is understand…

we will all break

someday

and for now

let the good fortune

of your day

begin ...

FOR VINCENT

Photo by S. Auberle

I imagine you, Vincent,

on a summer morning

in your village in Provence,

whispering to yourself,

arranging sunflowers

in a cracked, blue vase.

I see you painting them,

over and over—your symbols of hope

that you will awaken one day

into a sunny world,

leaving behind your darkness

of potato eaters and crows.

But o, Vincent,

how brief the dance…

how quickly blossoms fade,

leaving only hope behind

and a trail of yellow petals

to follow into the sun.

MOONSTRUCK

Photo by S. Auberle

How to Photograph the Moon 

first, of course, you must be naked

even on a cold night      yes

you may wear a long coat

but naked is the good way

then you must laugh

and pray      maybe both at once

singing is good too     and drumming

to the beat of your heart

all this must happen before

you get out the camera…

next     whisper to Her

say you understand

her longing     her loneliness

her wistful gaze at Jupiter

high above    who seems

in ignorance of her charm

she will reward you

with her brightest light

knowing you understand

this fragile territory of love

WHAT I WOULD LIKE

Photo by S. Auberle

I would like to have Makepeace

for my middle name

like William Thackeray

and I would like to think he did ...

I would like the sky

to always be that shade

of golden peach

shining at 5:00 this morning

I should like for everyone

to have a lemon tree

in their backyard because

lemon juice is good for everything

and a wild garden to turn

cocoons into butterflies ...

lastly I would like soft shawls for all

to wrap up little dogs

who tremble terribly when it storms

and need you to soothe them

whisper over and over

everything's gonna be alright ... 

EARTH DAY 2015

Photo by S. Auberle

 PRAYER FOR VILLAGE EARTH

 Mother Earth, we pray today

to join with our brothers and sisters

in the company of whom we share this web of life.

We will not take from you lightly, nor do harm.

We will respect those creatures with whom we live.

Wolf, Hawk, Turtle and Bear, we honor you

and all our four-legged brothers and sisters.

Bless us, please, you Flying People,

Crawling People, the Swimmers,

Plant and Tree People.

Father Sun, we beseech you

to shine down your light upon us.

Sister Rain and Brother Wind, walk softly here,

for we are small beneath your power.

Sister Moon, shine gently

 as you guide us into dreamtime,

and when you journey across the world,

send your stars to light our way home.

Mother Earth, accept our prayer,

bless us with your energy and healing.

Help us remember that we are connected

to all who share your sacred web of life—past,

present, and future—that in divinity

we may exist as one…

                                                            -  Sharon Auberle

Digital collage by S. Auberle       ~"Masquerade"
multi-media, hand colored pastel & watercolor

MASQUERADE 

She believed long ago

that every one except her knew

something she didn’t…

Important people knew,

successful people knew,

nuns and priests,

in their stern pulpits knew…

how to go through this world

purely, with wisdom the girl felt

she would never possess.

It seemed to her that she was broken

or missing something and, somehow,

needed to be fixed.

The masks were available

as she grew, and like other women

in that time and place,

she chose several…good girl,

good wife, good mother.

They never quite fit.

She couldn’t see well in them,

but it didn’t matter--this way

no one would know her true self.

With her vision askew,

the woman didn’t realize

that other people wore masks—

crooked ones, shabby ones, 

masks that had fallen,

been trampled on the ground.

But this is no new story

and I wish I could tell you a happy ending…

I can’t.  Except that

even the finest masks wear out.

Feathers and jewels drop, one by one.

The edges tatter and tear, till

one day, the masquerade ends.

The woman sees her face,

naked, scarred, criss-crossed

with living.  She touches herself,

tenderly, to be sure….and finds herself

whole and beautiful.  

She was never  broken. 

A CAROUSEL STATE OF MIND

Photo by S. Auberle

A CAROUSEL STATE OF MIND

in response to the painting "Winter Carousel"

by Robert William Addison

In the deep of winter it may come to you,

as though sent by wizards who know

the human heart can grow cold,

in need of small magicks…

say on a February day, perhaps,

when the season begins to hurt,

out of the blue you will catch a melody,

hear the prancing of riderless horses

and the bitter wind will soften,

frosty edges of your heart begin to melt.

Suddenly it is summer, and you are ready

to begin the whirling dance once more…

WINTER BLUES

Photo by S. Auberle

BLUE IS A FUGITIVE COLOR

It is the color of ambiguous depth,

of the heavens and of the abyss at once…

               ~  Alexander Theroux

do you remember that night

I said I would have to leave?

under a blue moon

in Clem & Ursie's Bar

you asked would I walk toward

something      or away

           

            and I said a horizon

is what I need 

a road rising to meet me...    

Dante's 9th Circle of Hell isn't fire

but ice     

           

            yet blue light

has the energy to escape ice

and remain visible

too often invisible to you 
I became     

           

                        blue

is a fugitive color  

fades quicker than any other

ODE TO BOSTICK

Photo from the Internet

Okay, so any of you who know me know that until I moved to Wisconsin I couldn't have cared less about football...but then I fell into caring...about the Packers (especially #12) and after Sunday's game I wish I was back to not caring.  But o well, que sera sera, as they say, and then this poem seemed to want to be written...

ODE TO BOSTICK

doesn't matter if you don't know

who Bostick is    

this isn't about him

it's about screwing up

we've all done it

badly      admit it     you have

I have       even Mother Theresa

I suspect

Bostick       we feel for you

more than you know

sure you coulda' done better

coulda'     shoulda'      woulda'

if only     so what

we do the damn best we can

nobody can do more

not even the pope

not even Mother Theresa  

and she'd be the first

to tell you    about that guy

in the gutter she missed one day
          so Bostick   it's okay
          nobody died