August Lesson
“August represents pure love,” my teacher’s teacher said;
then, why does hatred pull hatred to the mark?
After two national massacres, today looks
unreal. Hardly a bloom in the courtyard under cold fog
followed by wind over brown, dead grass.
I finish reading another bad book, sip lemon water.
Two friends connect by phone; I am willing to help.
We look for ways to heal, to engage, to find once again
joy hiding among the decades.
Gudrun Mouw (c)
August 7, 2019
MORNING DRIZZLE
Barely visible, a transparent sheet
of moisture falls
to the semi-arid earth.
Something precious stirs—
something momentous like a birth.
Summer Solstice happened;
one more spring has passed.
Morning deer have grazed and gone.
A neighbor’s cat appears on life’s screen,
then, ducks out, under our gate.
How much more is there,
to wonder and to love.
Gudrun Mouw (c)
June 20, 2019
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
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