Tag: <span>Poetry</span>

The tree that sheltered us
during the long ago storm
that blew off the cottage roof,
that hundred some year old tree fell uphill
creating a weave of dry, tangled limbs.

This drought goes beyond the beyond.
I carry water until it hurts;
dishwater is not wasted,
but my tears are not enough.

Gudrun Mouw (c)
August 22, 2021

A Poem

I have recently finished reading, The Way of Silence: The Prose and Poetry of Basho by Richard Lewis, a book given to me by one of my yoga students. Basho was a seventeen century Japanese haiku master.

What seems timely for me, at this time, is that he embarked on a solitary journey, gradually withdrawing from the world as personified in the final observation of this book: ….”it has been customary to leave behind a death poem….But every moment of life is the last….”

This reminds me of the yogic teachings that every breath is both a birth and a death—a beginning and an end. That is something to contemplate during this dangerous Covid pandemic era. I ask myself: Is it not crucial to value the present moment, however it appears and however difficult that might be?

March 14, 2021
Gudrun Mouw (c)

A Book Review

On the tile roof, a seagull stands strong
against the rising down-coast wind.
Sun shines sideways through
the pepper tree, whose shadows
dance wildly inside the parked car, where I wait
during this pandemic for take out food,
as wind moves everything it can.
I have been waiting, quietly, since
we hid from the Gestapo,
though I didn’t know what I was waiting for.
And now, I wait again in this current era
of dictators and would-be dictators
as that strong bird still stands
against a down-coast gale.

September 19, 2020

© Gudrun Mouw

A Poem

So sorry readers, I rushed to post

forgetting that: “A poem is never finished,

only abandoned.”

—Gudrun

FROZEN SOULS – Updated

1
At 5:00 pm
guards would start collecting women;
children looked through bombed out eaves
to see stars, sometimes the moon.
Once there was a different kind of light—
something conscious.
A child inhaled the essence
like food she was not getting.
2
Rachel stretches. This 70 years old memory,
she thinks, and now another dangerous era.
The pandemic needs drastic measures.
And the horse porch hearth glows;
new beams mix with old.
We watch home movies.
The hitching post stands idle.

(c) Gudrun Mouw

April, 2020

A Poem

Human Predator

He rushes through
like a cold North wind;
and at his favorite stop,

his mountain lion eyes
look to scare victims
as he intensifies the night.

Fear must not
be king. May courage
reign.

Feb. 18, 2020

Gudrun Mouw (c)

Uncategorized

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