I resist this poem so it won’t haunt,
but there is no stopping the taste of water.
How many stupidities act
as if a thought doesn’t fly through the universe,
since secret greed is not secret.
I resist this poem so it won’t hurt,
but there is no stopping that song of the unsung.
Gudrun Mouw (c)
January 13, 2019
Looking at sunlight, east of the ash tree
and west of an oak forest that writes
the history of this valley/canyon. Will deer hop
out of today’s bright page? Where is coyote?
I remember how the bobcat killed
a gopher as it destroyed
my last butterfly bush; he came
when he heard my wail, rushed like wind past me,
and demolished the culprit. I did not ask for that.
If I had been quiet, one more creature
would have lived. Now, an imprint
of light and shadow holds the landscape
between past and future.
Gudrun Mouw (c)
November, 2018
THE NO IDEAS IDEA
…
Words without connection rumble,
arrive and disappear.
Images without explanation
fly through the sky of vision.
Meanings are lost.
How and why, I do not know.
Mistakes, weakness and imperfections
penetrate the early hours before dawn.
Where is maturity? Humility?
Forgiveness? Change?
Who will finish what?
No beginning. No end.
Fear sinks its head
as a hopeful smile lingers
without reason.
…
Gudrun Mouw (c)
Sept. 24, 2018
After Labor Day
A newsperson previews summer’s end;
this proclamation brings relief
and fear—the intense heat that was,
and a chill about to fall
upon an expanding national concern,
which reminds her of the violent years
that unleashed World War II.
And now, once again, she remembers:
how hard it is, not to hate hatred.
Her prayer escapes: “May I breathe
that divine and universal love,
away from those who whip their rage.
Let me not retreat
to a prison of discouragement.”
Gudrun Mouw (c)
September 6, 2018
Friend/Enemy
Dear friend, before you died,
you complained, “I’m doing things so
I can keep doing them.” I did not think
those would be the final words
I heard you speak….
Dear enemy, will my aversion
for the harm you keep committing
bring the world, once more,
towards a common good?
May truth blossom
like rosemary
in the midst of drought.
Gudrun Mouw (c)
July Afternoon
A wound up breeze unfurls, dries out
what we’ve healed
with grey water, hoses, tears.
So much shrivels while
a shameless cult leader lies to the world,
and an afternoon in solemn silence
sinks oak roots deep
into the sand.
Gudrun Mouw (c)
July 14, 2018
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