The Party (Patti Smith Saves The Manatee)

You arrived at The Party

and went room to room, circle to circle

eager with anticipation of liking and sharing

an evening of informative discourse 

but your search was in vain

and all your comments 

though crafted with the best intent

landed clumsily like heavy stones

and so began 

your frustrating descent into madness

as you made your way through

The Living Room:

chattering guests announcing 

the joys of their new status

or cryptic slanders of their last one:

("some people will NEVER grow up!)

The Hallway:

where people complain 

that they just don't 

make music like this anymore

The Patio:

a review of last night's dinner

at the latest fashionable restaurant 

complete with pictures of dessert

The Den:

home movies of grandchildren and grumpy cats

and fantastic things that will change your life forever

("You won't believe what happens next!")

The Bedroom:

a lively discussion of what women really want:

recipes for butternut squash soup

and 50 Things To Do with Coconut Oil

("#37 will blow you away!")

and suddenly you feel woozy

when you realize this party

is full of faces that seem familiar

but you can't remember their names 

or where you met that friend of a friend of a friend.

Later that evening

you notice folks disclosing

their medical afflictions

complete with photos of gaping wounds

("This was right before 

they wheeled me into surgery . . .")

and a mysterious women in the corner

gathering personal information and telling people

what rock star they were in a former life

("Hey, I got Patti Smith! Yeah!”)

while her sister pleads

for you to sign a petition

that will give the endangered Manatee

a fighting chance

(Won't you please help?)

2:00a.m. 

your head is spinning

when you discover that

the only ones left are drunk in

The Kitchen:

where discussions of great social injustices

create passionate cries for equality and fairness

as the mob plans their protest

against The Corporate Evil

but your clumsy attempts at offering 

a different solution are shouted down

while guests fidget and mumble under their breath

("Well, he's not at ALL like I thought . . .")

and that's when you realize

all the circles are the wrong circles

and no one is really listening

to anyone with something different to say

because you've been dropped off

at the wrong party

there are no cabs 

and it's a long walk home.

The next morning

you sift through your broken rhetoric

trying to remember what you said

that was so wrong and made people so upset

while you empty your pockets

and find recipes for butter nut squash soup

written on the back of a petition 

to Save The Manatees

and your grand daughter's picture--
your only successful contribution 

for the evening

that everyone could agree on.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   November 2014

A Rush To Judgement

When love fails us

we banish it from memory 

with a series of charges

In sorrowful deliberations

the heart pronounces judgement

victims and villains

demands for restitution 

In its passing

we are quick to bury love

with a eulogy of its sins

and no celebration of its gifts

Solemn days of retrospection follow

and as we wait patiently 

for justice to balance 

the mortal scale 

we search for words to capture 

the heights of love's ascension

and the depths of our fall 

from its grace

until the day gratitude arrives

to relieve our grief with one simple lesson:

there can be no failure in knowing love

only success in touching it at all.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   December 2014

Parading in the Rain

On that strange day 

with rain on the other 

side of the street

while I sat in sunshine

reading your message

that parted the clouds

I let myself be entertained 

by the possibility of you                

gracious you.

As my heart leapt and ran 

quickly down the street

parading in the rain

in silent observation

my mind--buried deep in 

the noisy crowd--would soon realize 

your act of kindness

was nothing more than caring 

one heart for another

   

but rather than mourn 

the dream unrealized

I gave thanks for you

and a vision so strong

the sun came out to see it

on a rainy day

and as I quietly watched 

my foolish heart 

leading the parade 

my only thought was

“Let him have his day,

I’ll tell him later.”

for M.M.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   December 2014

Reign, Reign, Go Away

"In God We Trust"

but why do that?

I'll put my faith

in a stylish hat,

to keep my big head

warm and dry,

when God learns I've left him

and has a good cry.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   December 2014

While You Were Sleeping (A Night on the Town)

I saw your shadow 

last night

                    lurking

in the corner of the room

It took a seat

at a table           

                   in the dark

for only a moment

with another shadow

who wondered 

               why this place

was chosen for haunting

That silhouette

the restless energy

                                  

               nervous hands in pockets

I knew it was you

It didn't look happy

then 

a phone call          more bad news 

and it was gone

Creepy, huh?

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   December 2014

Feed Your Head

     I live in Fremont, CA, curry-kitchen suburb to Silicon Valley, where East Indian software programmers in sandals play Cricket (aka 'baseball, but not') on the field in the park where Jack and I take our morning ramble. 

     Fremont is home to all the big-box super-stores, with the exception of the two that have folded like cheap lawn chairs—Borders and Barnes and Noble. Their rapid collapse left all the locals surprised, apart from the East Indian software programmers who knew that you could download any programming language manual directly to your computer or have a hard-copy delivered to your front door by amazon.com. To add insult to injury, these quietly respectful and unassuming gents from Bangalore don't need to steal Internet access while nursing an over-priced caramel macchiato for three hours. Big box book stores never had a chance here. 

     That's why I was surprised when someone here in Fremont - the birthplace of the technology that has been slowly killing the large national retailers - decided to open a used book store, and beyond my wildest expectations, it has become a thriving and successful concern.  Our local bookstore is now the first place I go when I need a gift or a card; I don't remember the last time I willingly went to the mega-mall. 

     It was during a recent visit to our little book store that I realized why I feel so at home there: stores like this are a pleasant reminder of the record stores and head shops that I was fascinated with when I was a teenager. These stores were so different from the Sears and J.C. Penny's my parents dragged me through, and they were speaking to a different section of the population that I wanted to be part of. One of my happiest memories is record shopping at the Record Factory store in my hometown, my father in the classical section reviewing my rock and roll selections with parental encouragement mixed with a dash of watchful concern.

     The local book store is my new head shop. I'm just feeding my head with different things these days.

     Our little book store always produces a reaffirming flashback to the counter-culture that defined me in my youth, but my experiences are slightly different now. I always chuckle at the abundant volumes people have given up on in the new-age philosophy section. I find it slightly disturbing to walk past the collectable comic book section complete with guys that will never stand a chance at dating your daughter, and I am always comforted to see a section containing what is now the rarest of all media that is making a slow and steady comeback into style: the long playing (LP) record. During my last visit I almost bought a Hank Williams Sr. record for $15.00 on principle alone (my record player was last seen in the attic), but instead I supported our local economy and the ‘alternative shopping experience’ with two "Happy Holidays to me!" used book purchases for a grand total of $15 with tax. The place was buzzing, people were buying and selling, and there was groovy music on the house sound system. It was beautiful, just like I remembered how shopping could be.

     Perhaps you have grown accustomed to or even spoiled by places like Amoeba and Rasputin and local independent book and music stores like Bird & Beckett in The City, but to have a store like this thrive here in the land of commuters in 2005 grey Toyota Celicas (software programmers) and 2012 Priuses (program managers) is a rare treat of new-age counter-coulter that makes me warm and fuzzy all over like a good hit from a 1974 bong.

Cool.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   December 2014

Happiness (Your Seat At The Table)

How silly

you must have felt 

when you realized

happiness

had been there 

the whole time

smiling, shaking its head

laughing at you from a table

in the corner of the room

watching your performance

of wailing and moaning

over nothing

now you make your way

across the crowded floor

to the table by the window

head bowed, nervous grin

past anger, fear, and grief

and all that blocked your view

to rest easy and raise a glass

to the death of those things

that blocked the light

and wonder no more

what happiness might say

if you took the time to listen.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   December 2014

The Bookmark's Wish

Story done
Reckless heart

Sunshine smiles
Midnight tears

Bookmark lies
Cast aside

Marking time
Job complete

Restless sleep
Lonely nights

Visions haunt
Somber dreams

Bookmark's wish
Story new

Chapters full
Graceful love


Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   November 2014

Sunday, Thoughts of Rain

Outside my window

It's raining like hell

On my neighbors orange tree

It's California

In November

And it's finally raining

A real storm

And everyone is thankful

For the gift from crying clouds

That same gift

They don't notice anymore

In Hawaii

Or Florida, where I remember

It rained every day of my vacation at 3:00p.m.

And went unappreciated by everyone but me

They say California is mostly high desert

They say we should treat water like gold now

They say we should have been doing this all along

But, of course, nobody listens because 

We always grow careless with what we have

When we think there's plenty

And we live our days

Like there is a never-ending supply

And an abundance of all things

So now I collect the cold water

That gets pushed along

By the hot water slowly crawling 

Through the old pipes

as it makes its way to my shower

And last night's dirty highball glass in the sink

And I sprinkle these buckets of gold

On the dying plants in the garden

And give the rest to the dog

On days when there are no crying clouds 

Swollen with nature's gold

To wash my neighbors oranges.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   November 2014

Fire On The Mountain

I remember the day

the Sun dove straight into the ocean

                             as fast as it could

                  in a ball 

             of blazing glory

               to escape 

                

         the dirt brown haze

     and its own runaway heat

         that was smothering 

                everything

             while clouds 

         turned the colors

of a distant fire on the mountain

and there was 

no rain 

in sight.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   November 2014

My Father's Friend

My father's friend is one of many

in a field of faded marble stones

that get a small American flag

one day each year.

The stone has no mention

of a wife or the house they bought 

and how they worried they could not afford it

but somehow did,

no mention of his children or grandchildren

or the car that he drove

that always smelled 

like cigarettes and aftershave,

no mention of the friends that loved him

and the place where they all went

every night after work for just one or two

but always stayed longer,

just a few chiseled sentences 

describing a short but significant period

from a lifetime of events worth noting.

For many people, my father's friend 

will always be more than just a faded marble stone

that gets a small American flag

one day each year,

and I wonder but never ask

how it makes my father feel

to remember his past while looking at his destiny

as he walks the field of faded marble stones.

inspired by a photograph by Colleen Granero Ramirez

Ken Owen     

Veteran’s Day, November 11, 2014

Van Niddy Press 

Wrong Man, Wrong Dream (Spirits in Dreamland)

A strange man walked 

through my dream last night.

A small bohemian attic,

low pitched ceiling, an empty cot 

and a table with one chair and a candle

near a half-circle window full of moonlight,

and as I wondered 

whose room this was 

and what my dream was trying to tell me

suddenly, from out of nowhere

a person whom I did not recognize

walked right in front of me and looked directly

into the camera lens of my mind's eye

to see if he recognized me,

he didn't--you could see it in his face.

He was in the wrong room.

He was in the wrong dream.

So he opened a door and left.

It startled me awake

and I wondered 

how many doors in how many dreams

before he found the dream 

he was looking for

and I wondered

how many spirits walk the night

searching for the right dream to haunt

so as not to be forgotten by those they miss.

-written while waiting for Maurice

backstage at Lagunitas Brewery, Petaluma, CA

Ken Owen   

Van Niddy Press   November 2014

The Empty Side Of The Bed

You can learn a great deal 
about a person by what they keep 

on the empty side of the bed

You can gain insight from the night stand

with its reading lamp, water glass (coaster?)

and collection of medicines easily swept 

into the drawer should a guest arrive

but the empty side of the bed 
will show you what a person wants near 

when they reach for comfort 

with the bleary eyes of day break 

and the lonely heart of night

and if the empty side of the bed has become 

a library of unfinished books and magazines

a graveyard of lost reading glasses

and an orphanage for pillows

you can bet it's been a long while 

since they have entertained the thought

of finding someone to share the blankets

on the empty side of the bed.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   November 2014

Haiku on The Wind

The tired wind

won't bother the sea today ---

resting quietly.

~~~~~~

Morning wind voices ---

    trees offer praise, singing streets

         break the morning calm,

         evening wind voices ---

    trees wail and moan, dark streets howl

pleading for mercy.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   November 2014

It's The Little Things

You're going to miss me,

but not for the reasons 

you think.

You probably never noticed

the salt and pepper shakers 

were always full

that was me,

or how the vacuum cleaner bag

was always empty

and the cord magically redone

after you shoved them 

unceremoniously back into the closet

in a fit of housecleaning rage

me also,

or the couch pillows returned 

to their proper order by size and pattern

but slightly askew to show casual style

and our snuggly couch blanket folded and ready

for another night of watching your latest

conspiracy theory documentaries 

and the collection of remote controls 

in an orderly row on the coffee table

at the ready with fresh batteries

me again,

and the dogs latest bone

removed from harm's way

of midnight barefoot trips to the bathroom

yeah, me.

So, before I forget

garbage goes out on Wednesday night

you should clean the espresso maker 

with white vinegar when it gets slow

you mow the lawn

shorter in winter

and longer in summer

change the water filter once a month

and the smoke alarm batteries 

on New Year's Day

and please be careful on the ladder 

when getting down the holiday decorations

(trust me, there are no killer spiders in the attic).


Call any time if you have questions.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   November 2014

Morning is a Woman

Morning is a woman

cloudy-eyed

humming softly

sheer gown of night

tossed slowly to the floor

standing bare with possibility

in front of her wardrobe of seasons

deciding her mood

today

a flowing sky blue dress 

with pattern of easy clouds

the morning star her necklace

hair down to catch the wind

with perfume of evening rain.

I hate to see her leave.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   October 2014

House Party

October was tipsy

and having a wonderful time

but not managing things very well

a few rainy days

then a week of heatwave

and the drought records were making everyone crazy

then Fall showed up 

late to the party and screamed

"What the hell are you guys doing?!"

Summer and Winter 

sitting together on the couch and mumbling

gave each other that "party over" look

then Summer passed out

and Winter got up to take a shower

and get ready for work with a big headache

as Fall started cleaning up

and October stumbled to the door

while sheepishly looking for his coat.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   

October 2014

Demon Dance: Notes from Hell's Saloon

No Beard, Part 1: A beautiful woman I know was walking slowly across the dance floor towards me; it was a vision I'll never forget: grinning slightly, eyes smiling, looking right through me while she gave me silent commands to 'stay right there, here I come,' and I froze in my steps. Trying to keep eye contact with her as she came towards me was like staring at the Sun. Then, suddenly, she tried to kiss me on the lips. I had no reason to expect this, no idea what she was doing or why; I was baffled, the situation threw me completely off course. I hugged her with genuine affection and as I released her she did it again and was successful. It was sweet; it was delicate. I was confused and embarrassed at my embarrassment. She had no way to know about my rule: I never kiss any woman on the lips except the woman I am with: date, girl friend, wife, whatever . . . so it's always a quick head-dodge when someone tries that little innocent peck on the lips with me, though in this instance many parts of my conscience were immediately screaming for a suspension of such a silly rule, but it has become a natural reflex action for me now. (I wonder what people think? Germ-A-Phobe? Too good for my kiss? Freak? All of the above . . . ?)

    Turns out, I had shaved off my beard, and she was checking out what it felt like to kiss me without it (though she had never kissed me with it). "I don't know" she said, staring and thinking and comparing the incomparable, "I like it both ways!" to which we both exploded in laughter at the ridiculous double meaning of the remark she just made on the dance floor of Hell's Saloon. I'm not sure who blushed more, me or her.

No Beard, Part 2: "You’re gettin' (sex...but that's not what he said), aren't you!" he shouted as he made the clean-shaven motion across his face referring to my now-gone-beard, which I had forgotten about but kept getting reminders from people on how much I was associated with it. "No, that's why I shaved it -- to get some," was all I could come up with from my Clever Comeback Department, which seems suspiciously depleted as of late. He made the startled look of displeasure at my response (there was no correct response other than to lie and say 'yes'), as if to say, either way, don't go changing yourself for that, and he was right to think that.

The Traveler: It was good to see her after all this time. She had been traveling extensively and would be in town now while she figured her plans for the future. She talked non-stop for 10 minutes and reduced me to a silent head-bobber while I offered an occasional "uh-huh" as she weaved one adventure story into another, and I couldn't blame her one bit. I was jealous listening to her stories because she had been doing what I dream of: traveling to places you hear about and experiencing the beautiful locations of this great country. She was alive and buzzing, full of stories and pictures and scenes and could barely contain them. Jealous, me.

The Dark Side (a conversation on the band stand):

Musician 1: "Hang on, 'cause next set we're going to the Dark Side." 

Musician 2: "I don't know about you but I'm already there."

Musician 3: "Me too, man. Really, what are you expecting, eye liner?!"

It made perfect sense at the time.

Demon Dance: . . . and the dance floor was full of the usual wild dervish dancing, and I noticed that there are Drinkers Who Dance and Dancers Who Drink, two completely different animals: serious dancers put their drinks down when they dance which thereby gives priority to their Demon Dancing (not by much) over their drinking, while serious drinkers never put their drink down no matter what they are attempting (some might say they are multi-tasking, but I think that's modern day bullshit). There is an older women who comes in using a walker then sets it aside and goes immediately to the dance floor which invokes a mystical Lourdes-like healing quality to the proceedings. . . there is a young war veteran who sits quietly, assessing the musicianship while nursing his beer that I assume Uncle Sam buys for him on some sort of monthly pension for his service (I hope). . . there are people of all races and colors, smiling, staring, laughing, and drunks who like to stay in dark corners and never move from their seat at the bar. . . and there are happy tourists who were frightened when they walked into the place that everyone at the hotel told them they must go see, but then the band started, and the wild dancing began, and they realized what this place was, and they embraced it like they belonged even though it smelled a lot like what Hell must smell like - an eternity of piss and puke and sweat and cheap whiskey and stale beer. . .and the musicians were just as sweaty as and even more glassy-eyed than the dancers and drinkers from too much time in the alley between sets.

    I am there, slightly stoned, watching, and I'm thinking this is the bar scene in Hell, and it's wonderful and frightening and these people weren't damned here, they came willingly and they love it, and they'll be back . . . and I fit right in . . . and I'll be back.

- North Beach, San Francisco, Fall 2014

I Was Dreaming

I was dreaming

         I was dreaming

        drifting through consciousness  

        a dream's dream

        weary time sleeps

        the spirit searching

        dreams to hold

       dreams to believe

dreams to dream.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   August 2014

A Flea On The Royal Dog

In dark of early morning

Mother Earth did tremble

from the weight of our worried dreams 

and sent a simple message

like the cranky down stairs tenant

banging on the ceiling

making her displeasure known

of the senseless racket above

that sent buildings quick to prostrate

while streets rose up like waves:

Your place in time is limited.

Your power is an illusion.

You are a flea on the royal dog.

Behave yourself 

or you may be removed 

without warning.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   August 2014

Prayer of Universal Intentions

Let us choose the giving path

     that leads us from gathering

and returns us to offering 

     alms without question:

                                       let us be kind.

Let us greet someone new

     and appreciate the common 

and unique in the stories we tell

     as we open the door to our worlds:

                                                            let us share.

Let us say how we feel

     so that no emotion goes untold

and the songs of our heart are sung

     by the choir of man:

                                    let us listen.

Let us smile, laugh, and cry

     with those who suffer

and remind them they are not alone

     as we help lay down their burdens:

                                                          let us comfort.

Let us raise all spirits

     and bring light to the darkened soul

with sonnets of praise and gratitude

     of the beauty that surrounds us:

                                                     let us appreciate.

Let us heal ourselves and others

    with the power of simple offerings 

to those in need

     wherever they may be:  

                                       let us care.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   August 2014

At The Tone, The Time Will Be...

I looked at my watch
and realized right away
that the time was not right

but as I watched the second hand
perform its dutiful head-down sweep 
like Mr. Hardy's grain mill mule

peacefully unaware
that the glare of the hot sun
meant it could not be 7:35

I thought...
Well, I only need to measure
a small chunk of...space

no matter if 
the start and end points
are not who they think they are.


Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   August 2014

Prayer of Remembrance (Let There Be)

Let there be no difference 

between our lifetime of greetings 

and our last farewell,

let there be no difference

between our loving

and our suffering,

let there be no difference

between our days together

and our nights apart,

let there be no difference

between living life

and life remembered,

let there be no difference

between this world

and the next,

let there be no difference

between the beginning

and the end,

let there be no difference

in the words we said then

and the words we say now:

I love you

I forgive you

You are with me always.

inspired by and dedicated to R.W., Tiburon, CA

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   August 2014

My University (home schooled)

There is a book, marked and ready

to offer me a lesson 

in each room of the house

where I may find a still moment:

Kerouac is drunk again

and riffing at the kitchen table

on poetry as jazz,

a lecture on life in the year 1215 

is being given in the bath room,

Billy Collins poems 

travel easily with a glass of wine

to the back porch at sunset,

while an essay on Buddhism 

rests on the nightstand

ready to teach enlightenment 

as I begin and end each day.

My desk—-the faculty lounge

where volumes rise in dusty piles

like teachers patiently waiting

their turn at the lectern

as I review the curriculum:

'Poems by Ginsberg'

        (I don't get it, I get it, I don't get it)

'Biographies of Johnny Cash and Art Pepper'

        (why is it always drugs?)

'Atlas Shrugged' 

        (3 more chapters then drop the class...again)

'International Economic Policy in The New World'

        (for that serious student on a serious day).

So remember, dear students,

when we open our books

to the sound of turning pages

and the smell of fading time,

we open our minds

to the collective knowledge of man.

Until next time,

class dismissed.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   August 2014

Alms of Dew

Dying grass 

straw-brown weeds

thirsty beggars plead for alms of dew

as mighty pines shake 

the cool grey blanket

of morning fog.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   August 2014

The Endless Tear

Tis the season
of the endless tear

weeping always weeping
without relief

drying your eyes
with the heart on your sleeve

salt water sorrow
streams up from the soul.

Ken Owen.  Van Niddy Press.  August 2014

Mercy Rain

No rest content nor joy within,
confront thy demons, confess thy sins,
search the skies
for signs of Mercy Rain.

Parched and dry the barren heart,
clear horizon, time to start,
the journey long
in search of Mercy Rain.

Mercy Rain, Mercy Rain,
anoint the wounded, ease their pain,
suffering's end
begins with Mercy Rain.

The endless path will show no gain,
thirst for pleasure, fear of pain,
receive the gift
of healing Mercy Rain.

Wandering pilgrim sad and grim,
cry no more, forgive within,
bathe your seeds
of love in Mercy Rain.

Mercy Rain, Mercy Rain
anoint the wounded, ease their pain,
suffering's end
begins with Mercy Rain.


inspired by j.s. of the state of Jefferson





Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   August 2014

Death Makes a Ripple

          "What was that?

He's gone.

          Oh no!

Oh yes.

          I didn't know...

Couldn't you tell?

          Well, now that you mention it...

The signs were all there.

          Yes, I see them now...

Now it's too late.

          but I was busy...

Busy with what?

          rowing as fast as I could!

Aren't we all?"

and they rock gently 

in silent reflection

remembering

in sunsets and clouds

until life's waters

lie still again.

in memory of g.w.c.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   July 2014

What The Wind Is Saying

Some days 

I keep the window open 

just slightly 

to give a voice to the wind

and I listen 

to the howling messages

like

      "I just came in from Hawaii---Paradise!"

or

    "Do something, anything!"

perhaps it's 

           "The people next door hate your barking dog!"

or maybe even

             "There are great atrocities out here 

               that you can't fix from your room!"

Some days

I keep the window open 

just slightly 

so I can hear what the wind has to say

but most days

all I can make out is

"What's done is done, 

come on, let's go."

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   July 2014

It Goes Without Saying

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Pres   July 2014

Good-Bye to Dreams

I woke myself up
kissing the dream of you
good-bye

your face in my hands
I kissed tenderly
upon those gentle lips

I woke alone
watching the image
of love drift away

an unreachable cloud
erasing itself from memory
with every blink.


Ken Owen  Van Niddy Press  July 2014

Oh Unrequited Lover

Visions new the eyes do seek
life's beauty undiscovered
to burden ease and heart to please
oh unrequited lover.

Hobbled mind and spirit torn
seek love not from another
thy gifts within let healing begin
oh unrequited lover.

As thou has loved at greatest height
in depth so shall ye suffer
with tears of pain the saddest rain
oh unrequited lover.

And as these clouds shall one day pass
tis then you shall discover
the world is love in all your view
oh unrequited lover.


inspired by the poems of Hafiz, Suffi poet, 1320-1389


Ken Owen.  Van Niddy Press.  July 2014

A Kiss at the Bottom of the Sea

He had seen visions

from the waters edge

of a beautiful siren

on distant rocks

He knew of the legend

how mermaids would swim up

to grab hold of your heart

and render you powerless

and bring you down

to the bottom of the sea

and once they kissed you

your air became water

under the blue sky ocean

where fish swim like stars

and you could never go back

to the life you knew.

To this he said simply

"then remember me fondly"

as he turned to listen

at the waters edge

to the song of love

from the beautiful mermaid

and when she reached for his heart

he gave it freely

and they drifted together

on waves of loves embrace

then with the kiss

of new beginnings

he looked up from the bottom of the sea

as ocean became his sky

and fish swam by like stars

and he knew he was where he should be.


for Danielle and Eric
June 14, 2014

Ken Owen    Van Niddy Press      June 2014

Drought in the Heartland

I hope this letter

finds you.

Since you left

long days have become

mostly quiet 
and very still.

Though I still tend barren fields 

that lie parched and waiting,

I expect no harvest

anytime soon.

On days when

great rolling storms

appear without warning

and block out the sun,

I draw the shades
and hide inside

from the howling wind

that rattles the windows.

Hope sees no reason

to visit here anymore,

but I continue to work the soil

and check the sky for clues.

It is hard to imagine you 

experiencing a drought of smiles

in these days of love's thirst,

but they say times are tough all over.

I hope things are better

where you are.

Write when you can.

Inspired by the Ken Burns film "The Dust Bowl"

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   June 2014

Modern Poetry is Bullshit

I have been reading
poetry of the modern masters
and have come to realize
that most of it is complete bullshit.

For example,
to make up for
their indecipherable passages
they do things with form like

                                    hang sentences out in the middle of nowhere

to make you feel stupid
if you were to admit
you didn't understand why they did that
while everyone else shouts "Brilliant!"


Bullshit.


And it seems
that if you are in a drunken stupor
and write a famous poem
that makes no sense to you or anyone else

when you sober up
they will still publish
anything you do in perpetuity
while shouting "Brilliant!"


Also bullshit,


because sometimes
if we are lucky we make art
but most times we are just
drunkards at life's banquet with our heads
                                             in the soup.


(See what I mean?)


-written in a drunken stupor @ 12:30a.m.


Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   

June 2014

Our Quiet Hearts

I have never understood why we cut down 

beautiful groves of living flowers and trees

to make fields where we plant dead souls

that don't seem the least bit interested 

in sprouting into anything.

I am certain when they plant our quiet hearts

you'll come up as a poppy of gentle beauty 

so I'll make every effort to come up as a mighty pine 

to watch over you at the edge of your field until 

they cut me down to make room for someone else.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   June 2014