Category: A Poem

October

1)
I look at the month
of forgiveness—when rains
come down, when the land expands
with relief, and I forgive myself
for every complaint against heat,

though I still save dish water
for the courtyard
as a hot, dry climate
and fading sun
slowly relent.

2)
I do not forget:
The Drought Years
That Year of Fighting Bucks
Coyote Years
The Year of Fawns

That Skunk Family Year
Mountain Lion Years
Bobcat Years

and Years When I Don’t Know
What to Expect.


October 6, 2019
Gudrun Mouw (c)

A Poem

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

A Poem

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

A Poem

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

A Poem

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

A Poem

A Poem Can Haunt

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

A Poem