Category: A Poem

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

A Poem

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)

A Poem

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

A Poem

Forgiveness

For Mutti

More than 17 years ago, on your last day,
you left your “Sabbath…Study Guide” open
to a page on forgiveness;
you were only a few years older than I am now.

Still, your multitude of sad, unspoken words
rise up from the depth of our shared
her-story and haunt my hours.
Mother, Mutti, it was never your fault.

Though it is no longer a misfortune
to be born in a family that did not
produce first born male heirs but daughters,
the guilty consequence remained for generations.

In spite of all odds, thanks to you,
I survived Hitler, as well as Stalin’s starvation camps.
And today, as a rough, fearful winter continues to invade
this spring, I release an ancient anger to honor you.

Gudrun Mouw (c)
April 4, 2018

A Poem

 

another massacre, the same excuses,
platitudes and insincerities; a numbness
covers the landscape like a wash of despair.
The brave ones must help us pierce through,
to regain our humanity and the lives of our youth.

 

 

 

Gudrun Mouw (c)
February 16, 2018

A Poem

The Get Well Bouquet

is beautifully arranged, as I am not….
May I be free of unhelpful ideas.
May I appreciate beauty as it opens,
passes and fades before my eyes.

What am I getting well from?
What am I moving toward? January sunlight
there on our California hillside
is not as warm as it looks; yet,

I’d like to fling myself on tender grass
turning green after rains, which sadly elsewhere
created destruction….Still, this sweet bouquet
makes a fragrant and silent plea.

Gudrun Mouw (c)
January 22, 2018

A Poem