Tag: Poetry

we-are-three-9780961891602I am again reading Rumi, We Are Three: Translations by Coleman Barks. Inside the back cover, I find a gift.

I had written a poem there, dated 4.21.1991, and there was also a revision on the facing page, dated 5.28.2002. I smile thinking of that saying, “A Poem is Never Finished, Only Abandoned.” Since I don’t much like the word abandoned, I reconsider.

This poem will not be abandoned, because I find myself working on another revision as my memory of that long ago day becomes vivid:

The Santa Barbara Bird Refuge

A goose stands on one leg at water’s edge;
it’s long neck stretches over a glassy sheen,
and a squat duck on one leg,
pecks under its wings.

Similarities and differences jostle
to make an imprint on my perception.
Feathers ruffle in the wind.

A silver cloud floats across the sky
like a large, slow barge.
The carnival of my mind
shuts down.

And the longing for which I yearn,
bursts into into light
like a golden swan rising up.

A Poem Journal Entry

Today, Only Today

I wait, but July is quiet. 
A woodpecker taps until suspension 

creates a ringing sound 
that something may soon arrive. 

The slider cracks open 
to remind me, 

though yesterday held my head in a vice,
I will not anticipate tomorrow.

July 14, 2016
(C) Gudrun Mouw

A Poem

Music Within

The radio transmits sounds I cannot
integrate. I push the button off;
a lyric rises inside, playing
an energetic silence.

Words unsaid create pitch, vibrate
and color the atmosphere.
We are disconnected, or
connected to melody,

something between the letters,
beyond articulation,
expectation, or fear 
waiting to be heard.

(c) Gudrun Mouw


A Poem

What’s Wrong With “Holiday?”


Gathering pine cones

for the fireplace, blankets,

clean towels, spring water, Christmas candles,

we collect what we need for a gathering

during this holiday season.



Look for the handcrafted

reindeer that makes me smile;

but, I will also celebrate

with a Buddhist prayer, a Sanskrit chant,

and the rose fragrance of community heart.



(c) Gudrun Mouw December, 2015


A Poem

Rain pounds metal, wakes up a sleepy Fall.
Red flashes. Fire trucks stand parked
behind Medical Alert, a tow truck

and people holding their sides shocked to be alive.
Someone landed in the creek. Someone stopped time. 
Someone died.

Rocks fall. Branches crack, roots rip up.
What remains, creates awe;
whoever is not broken prays. 


(c) Gudrun Mouw
November 2, 2015

A Poem

Three fires within 5 miles, two fires cutting
off escape, the wind of fear finally abated, 

I walk with a friend
through the char of aftermath.
How quickly spurious shifts
can untwist old growth.

We note a distant glint of green 
even as sun glowers overhead.

Walking through 500 acres of burnt trunks
and limbs without leaves, not daring to touch
the rough of what is left, we are the delicate ones,
the chastened.

(c) Gudrun Mouw
August 25, 2015

A Poem