IF ONLY…
If only wind would
diminish; if only May would not
feel like winter.
If only humanity were
more humane. If only love
spread wings everywhere,
and rest would stay sweet.
She would be all
that she could, if only
it were June.
Gudrun Mouw (c)
May 23, 2019
Not Yet The Ides of March
After a cold, dry night,
after destructive rains,
after frozen morning fields,
we drive towards sun
over foothills of discontent.
Earth lifts billowing Tuli clouds
from dark valleys
into a sunlit green.
Will beauty save us
from contracting
with sorrow?
Gudrun Mouw (c)
March 10, 2019
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
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