October has passed. That bomb cyclonedidn’t get us. A month of forgivenesshas passed. I forgave myself and others. Now here is November’s Balanced State,
calm and cool. Our mini meadow greens
from rain in recent weeks.After many drought months—a sweet revival.
November, 2021(c) Gudrun Mouw
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Oct. 13, 2021(c) Gudrun Mouw
I had a moment when presence spoke up.
I was weaving back and forth, up and down
through the oak forest, suddenly, Ms. Presence
appeared: from branches, dips, mounds, holes, dirt,
wild grasses, that child’s voice came forth,
“Here I am. Watch me!”
September 23, 2020
(c) Gudrun Mouw
The tree that sheltered us
during the long ago storm
that blew off the cottage roof,
that hundred some year old tree fell uphill
creating a weave of dry, tangled limbs.
This drought goes beyond the beyond.
I carry water until it hurts;
dishwater is not wasted,
but my tears are not enough.
Gudrun Mouw (c)
August 22, 2021
On the tile roof, a seagull stands strong against the rising down-coast wind. Sun shines sideways through the pepper tree, whose shadows dance wildly inside the parked car, where I wait during this pandemic for take out food, as wind moves everything it can. I have been waiting, quietly, since we hid from the Gestapo, though I didn’t know what I was waiting for. And now, I wait again in this current era of dictators and would-be dictators as that strong bird still stands against a down-coast gale.
September 19, 2020
© Gudrun Mouw
So sorry readers, I rushed to post
forgetting that: “A poem is never finished,
only abandoned.”
—Gudrun
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FROZEN SOULS – Updated
1 At 5:00 pm guards would start collecting women; children looked through bombed out eaves to see stars, sometimes the moon. Once there was a different kind of light— something conscious. A child inhaled the essence like food she was not getting.
2 Rachel stretches. This 70 years old memory, she thinks, and now another dangerous era. The pandemic needs drastic measures. And the horse porch hearth glows; new beams mix with old. We watch home movies. The hitching post stands idle.
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(c) Gudrun Mouw
April, 2020
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