Category: 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 billowingTuli clouds
from dark valleys
into a sunlit green.

Will beauty save us
from contracting
with sorrow?

Gudrun Mouw (c)
March 10, 2019

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

Cycles

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

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