Tag: Poetry

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

Speak?

I answer: let me write, how the worst
humans have no compassion. Winds
rise; the ocean rises. We swing back
and forth between drought, fire and deluge.

Memory—of a family displaced,
threatened, in hiding, abused
and starved—does not forget
the sounds of death.

Each of us must find a way
to expose that
which should not
exist.

Gudrun Mouw (c)
December, 2018

Uncategorized

I keep returning to one of the poems published in NEWS FROM NATIVE CALIFORNIA, “When Coyote Comes to Visit” by D. Lorraine Sanchez.

Why is the “When Coyote Comes to Visit” poem so relevant in my view? We are living through times, it seems to me, when unpredictable, egotistical, cheating and foolish coyote energy has gained an alarming amount of power.

This poem has given me a different way to look at our current situation in the world. Perhaps, it is more important than ever, not only to see the amusing and entertaining side of coyote phenomena, but also to understand how we must not be mesmerized by the dangerous antics that are so blatantly displayed. I am grateful to the poet for the healing detachment and light this piece creates.

Gudrun Mouw (c)

Personal Updates

THE NO IDEAS IDEA

Words without connection rumble,

arrive and disappear.

Images without explanation

fly through the sky of vision.

Meanings are lost.

How and why, I do not know.

 

Mistakes, weakness and imperfections

penetrate the early hours before dawn.

Where is maturity? Humility?

Forgiveness? Change?

 

Who will finish what?

No beginning. No end.

Fear sinks its head

as a hopeful smile lingers

without reason.

Gudrun Mouw (c)
Sept. 24, 2018

A Poem

I began a poem about my mother early this morning and titled it, “Mutti.” I was trying (she’s been gone over 17 years) to “retrieve her multitude of unspoken words.”

I glance over at a 9×12 flower painting, separated from its frame, lying on the dining room table where I am sitting. The landscape has just recently been returned to me. I had given it to a friend who yearned to see the blue petals of her European childhood.

I am still grieving this British-born friend, who died just a few months ago. A mutual friend, who returned the painting, had brought up its subject. She thought it was “Edelweiss,” I thought it was cornflowers. We were both wrong. We hadn’t accounted for the yellow/orange centers of the blue flowers. On the back of the painting, I notice “Alpine Forget-Me-Not,” written in my father’s handwriting.

My father, the artist, has been gone over 18 years….And now, it will soon be spring. A rebirth. I can feel the change–that brutal morning cold has abated; the California hills are green and flowers bloom. Perhaps, the poem may yet finish itself.

Gudrun. Mouw (c)

Journal Entry