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Wind Where Music Was
by Sharon Auberle and Ralph Murre
113 pages/88 poems/10 illustrations
Pubisher: Little Eagle Press
ISBN 978-0-9823419-8-8
Price: $15.00 + $3.00 S&H
To Order:
Little Eagle Press
P.O. Box 684
Baileys Harbor, WI 54202

About the Book:

After a longish hiatus from print publishing, Little Eagle Press flies back into the fray
with a new work, Wind Where Music Was, a collaborative effort of the poet Sharon Auberle
and Ralph Murre. 

The book, which went by the working title Both Sides Now, consists of poems from both of
their collections, written over an extended time and about the several major loves of each.
Love gone aright and awry. The heat, the cold; love lost and found. For better or for
worse, 'til life do us part; and all assembled in such a way that they hope there is an arc
of story and, who can tell, maybe even a happy ending.

Advance Praise:

"How much love can a life, a heart, a book hold? In Wind Where Music Was Sharon
Auberle and Ralph Murre blend voices and lives for artfully crafted perspectives
on old love, ex-love, new love, and of course, erotic love. The poets, by not
identifying whose poem is whose, let us feel how love histories become shared
experience, become the wisdom of love, become present love…a knowledge earned
only through life and poetry. An apt reference to Rumi included in the book
reads, “Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.”
Dare I say, many of the poems in Wind Where Music Was have been in all of us
all along."
–Albert DeGenova - poet, teacher, blues saxophonist, and founding editor of After Hours.

"Make no mistake; these aren’t gooey, sentimental concoctions that make your teeth
ache from too much sweetness. These are mature poems, wonderfully crafted. These
are gorgeous gems, little beauties in she said he said echoes that are perfectly
pitched, sensate and sensual. Sharon Auberle and Ralph Murre trace love from its
electric inception through break-up and loss—to love again. In the best tradition
of love poets, these poems will appeal to “the pilgrim soul in you.” Enhanced by
Auberle’s artistic images, the poems will leave “a little bit of gold clinging to
[all] of us.”
–Karla Huston - author of six chapbooks of poetry, contributor to countless journals, and winner of the Pushcart Prize.

Author Bios:

Sharon Auberle is the author of two poetry collections which also contain her photos:
Crow Ink and EVErywoman; and Saturday Nights at the Crystal Ball, a memoir in poetry.
Her work has appeared in numerous publications and anthologies and, for reasons which
are still a mystery to her, she has authored a blog – Mimi's Golightly Café – for
seven years, which contains a potpourri of her images and words. She may be found at

Ralph Murre draws, writes poetry and occasional prose, and has been published in various
periodicals, in several anthologies, and in his own books: Crude Red Boat, Psalms (which
includes a number of pen & ink drawings), and The Price of Gravity. He has had thirty
occupations, more or less, and as many obsessions. Look for him near water or at the
Arem Arvinson Log, at

From the Book:

In Robert's Garden
by Sharon Auberle

How it is with art and lovers:
sometimes you wash the canvas clean,

erase the words, the image, the touch
begin anew your singular life.

Here is where his garden bloomed,
beneath stone and memory now.

Here a man and woman once stood
lost in the music between them.

She remembers flagrant peonies,
bees, heavy with nectar.

He remembers her,
suffused with heat and blossom scent.

There are some who remember
Robert’s paintings of the black rose,

how he finished the last,
wiped his canvas clean and left.

Maybe this is how we begin and end:
speaking the language of flowers.

~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ *~~~ * ~~~

Like this morning, crazy with wind
by Ralph Murre

Or just the other day, the bad roads
Even that time, and maybe it was long ago
When we all danced in circles

Take last night, what you said
Take the fire in the ring of rock
Take sun and rain, finally
Pulling frost from earth. A garden

Like falling in and out and in, again
Since the beginning and until
We are very, very old and
Maybe falling in and out, even then

The seasons, I mean, the leaves
The greening and the turning to gold
The rush of it like the sea pulling
The ice and streams of high mountains

Think of that water in the Pacific
Or the rain in Spain if you prefer
Or the little cloud that you are, driven

Like this morning, crazy with wind


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