RE / VERSE Fourth Anniversary Post: BLUE IS A FUGITIVE COLOR

photoart: sharon auberle

BLUE IS A FUGITIVE COLOR

by Sharon Auberle

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.

~ first published in Peninsula Pulse

Tres por Uno, Pablo

artwork: ralph murre

Talking to Neruda's Ghost

by Sharon Auberle

So Pablo, how is it,

over there where you are?

I want you to know

we miss you here,

miss your glorious gusto,

your fragrance of ink,

sea and flowers.

We miss your odes

to plain things:

salt, artichokes,

dictionaries…

Do you remember your ode

to watermelon?

I dream of licking the rivers

of juice from your lips, Pablo.

And your socks, Pablo,

I would have learned, gladly,

to darn them, though

I am a woman who hates to sew.

I think I could have loved you.

Yes, there was Matilde,

your sun and moon,

your beloved, without whom,

you said, you would die.

I can live with that.

But Pablo, please,

say we go on, say

that you and Matilde

are out there tonight,

hands filled with clay and words,

say

    you are shaping

          poems into stars

              to fling across the sky.

Matilde  

by Sharmagne Leland-St. John

Did she slake your thirst

and fill your poet's heart

with flowery words

to spill across the empty page,

a river of green ink,

flowing?

Did you see the rainbows

in her eyes and pray

she'd never leave you,

as you had left the others?

Did you watch with wonder

when she twined the blossoms

of the bougainvillea

into tangled locks

and feel your soul

was laughing at the moon?

Did you listen for her footsteps

on the spiral stair,

waiting for her return

so you could breathe again?

Did you ever think

someone could love you

so completely?

How I Met Pablo Neruda

by Estella Lauter

It was by accident.

Walking in Mexico City

I saw a poster about a reading

at the National Stadium.   

A tribute to Pablo Neruda. 

Like something that might

happen in a Greek ruin

not in North America.

I had to bear witness.  

My Cuban friend guessed

from their dress and speech

that people came from all over

Mexico and South America,

and they knew their man.

When the readers spoke his lines

a steady whisper surrounded us

as if the poems were a rosary.   

Suddenly from the center came a chant,

Neruda esta aqui.  Neruda esta aqui.

In New York, Security would have dragged

the visionaries out of there in minutes. 

But no.  The readers waited.  People wept quietly.  

When the voices hushed, the program resumed.   

No one was frightened by this spirit. 

Neruda was there.  He was expected. 

We were glad for him.

Esta bien.

~ "Talking to Neruda's Ghost" and "Matilde" have previously appeared in Quill & Parchment; "How I Met Pablo Neruda" was first published in Wisconsin People & Ideas

ANNA SWIR IS MISSING . . .

photoart: sharon auberle

ANNA SWIR IS MISSING IN THE FOREST

by Sharon Auberle

Last seen lying on a log

among trilliums, lady's slippers

and columbine…

It has rained since then,

a downpour of sweetness

drenching the book

I left among trees

where birds and squirrels

may one day line their nests

with a poet's words.

I didn't mean to leave her there,

but knelt to gather mushrooms

then, forgetting, walked away.

As she lay dying in Poland,

Anna wrote the book's last poem,

hospital sheets white and sterile

beneath her, no bed

of dark loam and leaves

no choirs of wildflowers

no one to whisper

she did not die,

she's only gone missing

for awhile in the forest.

~ first published in Crow Ink (Little Eagle Press)

Editor’s note:  Some days after losing the book and gaining this poem, Ms. Auberle retraced her steps through the woodlands and recovered the volume, dampish and lovely and treasured more than ever.

MIRACLE ~ Little Eagle's RE / VERSE Post # 500

digital art: ralph murre

MIRACLE

by Sharon Auberle

  Though we have no wings to lift us up,

we have imaginations that will.”

-           Frans Lanting

Whatever you do in this life,

never ignore small miracles

like this flock of white pelicans

soaring in circles overhead,

their great bodies backlit

by the sun, radiance pouring

down through their wings

in waterfalls of light.

Consider there might be

angels among them,

but even if you don’t find angels,

know your heart has been softened

by these immense beings of grace.

Please do not dismiss such gifts,

for rarely are we so blessed.

And oh, don’t turn away

and resume your small life,

instead, rise up, for a little while

as if you had seven foot wings,

as if you realized, finally,

we are all made of light.

~  first published in The Nature of Door (Cross+Roads Press)

EVE # 9

detail: collaborative artwork by At the Well members

EVE #9

by Sharon Auberle

Aged as she is,

even now Eve

sees no reason

to stop

dancing.

Her favorite spot

is under the apple tree,

where the old snake

has been watching

her for years,

shedding one skin

after another,

his eyes

like diamonds

glittering

in the grass.

~ previously published in EVErywoman

   (Seven Islands Press)

ELEPHANT CHRISTMAS

ceramic artist unknown

ELEPHANT CHRISTMAS

 by Sharon Auberle

The first year

you set out the elephants

I smiled at their scarred

and broken bodies, but

the tenderness with which

you touched them

took my breath away.

I wanted to hold you

till being grown-up disappeared,

and we were little kids again,

watching your parade of elephants

marching under the Christmas tree,

bodies unscarred, trunks raised in glee,

trumpeting their way to Bethlehem.

And every year, in every house after,

out they came from their battered boxes,

the old gray line joined by new ones:

blue and amber and black ones,

fierce old warriors and tiny-tusked babes. 

Every year the elephant parade grows

and every year comes

the same look on your face

as you set them under the tree,

as you return to that soft place

where no one is allowed to enter,

except a small boy and girl,

noses pressed against the window,

watching the passing parade.

~  first appeared at Mimi’s Golightly Cafe

photoart: sharon auberle

SONNET

by Sharon Auberle

I asked you, once, what happens

when dreaming comes to an end.

When light that falls through the trees

no longer seems able to tend

to those dreams into which we leapt

long ago, now grown cold

and autumn closing in,

brash, blustery and bold

and wind stripping leaves bare

from trees once sheltering us,

life and death beneath my feet

now become just dust.

Oh my heart, help me remember

in every cold fire remains an ember.

~ previously published in Crow Ink

  (Little Eagle Press)

PRAYER FOR VILLAGE EARTH

photo: sharon auberle

PRAYER FOR VILLAGE EARTH

(for seven generations)

by Sharon Auberle

 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…

-  first published in WomanPrayers

photoart: sharon auberle

MARRIAGE

by Sharon Auberle

Nocebo:  I will harm

I will harm you

by the silence

that may fill our rooms

silence more enormous

than a star.

I will harm you

by not seeing

you--across the table from me

or your arms, silvered

by moonlight, reaching out.

These will hurt you more

than the piercing blades

of words thoughtlessly

hurled in anger.

I will harm you most

by rendering you invisible.

Placebo:  I will please

I will please you

with my breath, warm

on the curve of your neck,

with the respectful intake

of your words into my heart.

I will please you with my eyes

my touch, my fragrance, my taste

as you have pleased me.

I will please you with all

this body, blood and bones.

I do not mean to harm you, ever,

yet—in love—it is inevitable

that I will.

~ first published in Fox Cry Review

PRAYER FOR A CHILD . . .

photoart: sharon auberle

PRAYER FOR A CHILD

WHILE LISTENING TO RACHMANINOFF

by Sharon Auberle

Bless this child, whose blue eyes

widen as the notes swell and

bless the wonder of their new-soul depths.

Bless this sun-glazed evening and

the green chair where I rock her,

adrift in music and light.

Bless the touch of her tiny hand

as my eyes grow heavy and hers close,

sailing off into that orange sky of sleep.

Bless the genius of her miniature thumb,

surpassing the wonders of Rachmaninoff

and sunset, and bless the grace that shows me

            somewhere lives a smiling God…

~ first published in WomanPrayers (HarperSanFrancisco)

SANCTUARY

photo: sharon auberle

SANCTUARY

by Sharon Auberle

Tell me it’s coincidence

my watch stopped here

in this timeless place

a place where deer speak

a silent language

and you understand

where a trail of lady slippers

leads through the woods

to a stranger, who speaks

of emerald dragonflies

and your hands shimmer

with light and you dance

with yourself, in a dream

a place where great banks of lilacs

scent the air and a bowl of beans

tastes fine as caviar

where night rain comes

softly in, bearing sleep

in her arms, tell me

this is coincidence

and I will send you on your way.

You do not belong here.

~ first published in Lilipoh

ANGEL FIRE

photo: sharon auberle

ANGEL FIRE

 by Sharon Auberle

everything we touch turns to a

poem, when the spell is on...

      ~  Linda Pastan

the mystery of cornstalks

murmuring among themselves

a brown-skinned man

in orange serape

walking between them

the slump of his shoulders

tugging at my heart...

from any of these

a poem might grow

but today

there is only the man

light streaming down on him

he, who could be an angel

for all might be holier

than we know

his serape, fiery

in morning sun

the wind lifting it

like wings

~ first published in the Peninsula Pulse

SIX DEGREES OF SEPARATION

photo: sharon auberle

SIX DEGREES OF SEPARATION
by Sharon Auberle


Only six people, it is said,

separate any person from another

anywhere on this earth.

I want to believe this. 

I want to believe,

with just six connections,

I could know an Eskimo,

an African tribesman,

a mother in Iraq.

I want to believe it would take

only six people to reconnect

with a gypsy I once saw,

the woman in cold rain

on the steps of the Duomo

in Florence, Italy. 

I would find her again,

her feet knobby and bare,

her black hair tangled in dusty braids.

Begging, she would whisper again

for my bambino, please,

for my bambino

and this time I would take

her chapped brown hand,

place lira in it,

close her fingers around the bills.

This time I would get it right

not turn aside

as her sleeve brushed my coat. 

This time my shame

would not outweigh hers.

~ first published in the Peninsula Pulse

SEARCHING

artwork: sharon auberle

SEARCHING
by Sharon Auberle

follow wishes and whims
follow moonlight
follow cactus buttons
Druids or monks
in red robes
follow a feather
floating across the sky
follow the Lord of the Dance
the Roman Pope, the stars
follow clouds and dreams
and the naked man in them
follow Mary, Pele
Green or Red Tara
follow Nothing
follow a three-legged dog
follow a flag, an ideal
old money, your bliss
your dead papa’s voice
follow comets that come
every hundred years
follow the Green Man
the vanishing road
the Buddha
the Church of Coltrane
follow that lost river
the forest path
Kuan Yin
a hawk, a canyon
Jesus the Christ
follow them home
to that one who’s
loved you all these days
fall into his eyes
remember the night
when you said to him
I’m looking for someone to worship.
Who could ever live up to that?

~ previously published in Crow Ink (Little Eagle Press)

WHALE

photo:sharon auberle

WHALE
by Sharon Auberle

May the calm be widespread. May the ocean glisten as greenstone.
May the shimmer of light ever dance across your pathway.
~ Maori Prayer

Just offshore this part of the coast,
the whaling guide says a canyon lies,
one thousand feet deep.
Mind and body tremble to think of this,
to think of tumbling down, down
into those ancient fathoms, loosed from tethers,
unyoked, free at last, to explore
what has always been dark, hidden.

Maybe there is a way to slip back in time,
back to when we small humans understood
there are places and creatures holy as us.
Maybe, somewhere, a leviathan goddess waits,
who will carry me on her back,
down to where her people sing to each other;
down to where the seabed shakes
in epic ecstasy of their courtship and love.
I would like to meet the whale children,
their gleaming bodies black beside mine,
my soul no more a pale flower,
but massive now, majestic as they,
as souls and whales were always meant to be.

Could it be that whales know us,
as they circle round our fragile boats?
With one slap of their mighty flukes
they could erase us in an instant.
Yet they only roll, lazily, in the waves,
breaching now and then—exuberant, yet careful.
Is it possible they have forgiven
our tremendous cruelty to them,
as a mother forgives her errant children,
knowing they have not yet learned?

A shining calf spouts nearby, showering us with droplets.
It’s good luck, says the guide, to be touched with whale breath,
and I wish for the luck to descend tonight--
to sing with whales, one thousand feet deep;
to dive and roll and breach in their colossal company
until morning comes—when I must awake,
ascend once more to that place
where even our sun god pales beside them;
where whale song lingers in the roaring of my ears.

~ first published in Earth’s Daughters