Footprints on the Moon

The scars of love 

upon a heart,

forever undisturbed 

like footprints

of journeys past 

on a cold and half-dark moon,

adrift in a galaxy of memories

that twinkle like stars 

out of reach,

in lonely orbit

and damned eternal 

with sight of a world 

once beautiful.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   December 2013

The Christmas Wish

My two children are young adults now,

out on their own,

earning pay checks, making babies,

experiencing the joys and harsh realities 

of the real world,

we are far removed 

from their childhood celebrations of Christmas morning,

the late night assembling of complicated toy machinery,

concocted explanations of mysterious traveling via rooftops 

and what happens when apartments have no chimneys,

though now I must deal with others in the family

who whip themselves into a frenzy 

of self-induced panic each year

over what the perfect present would be 

for someone they spoke with 

exactly three times all year,

the same people 

who never believe great-grandpa 

when he says he just wants a card 

and a nice family gathering,

though I'm fairly certain he really means it.

When I give family members 

a personal note or poem

and place it in a Christmas card 

adorned with snowy scenes,

I doubt that most of them notice 

I've just showed them 

that giving from the heart 

can be simple and easy,

they just think I am putting in 

the least amount of effort I can

into a children’s holiday 

that no longer holds any interest for me,

and because of that,

nobody bothers to ask me

what I want for Christmas anymore,

but if they did, I’d tell them that

every year at Christmas time

I find myself dreaming 

of living in a trailer on a beach in Mexico,

just me and Jack the Dog
watching surfers and sunsets

with my guitar and just enough whiskey

to take the chill off the night air,

far removed from the worry 

of who's giving what to whom,

appreciating my extended family

from a safe distance,

missing my two grown children and their babies,

and looking forward to seeing them all

after The Super Bowl

when The Season of Mass Hysteria

has passed.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   December 2013

Requiem For One Shoe

(The End of Sharing)

You see them on roads

paths

even freeways

alone

staring blankly ahead

with a dazed sort of 

'what do I do now?' look

and we try not to stare 

because if we do

we are instantly filled 

with their sadness and aching 

as we pity the lost sense of purpose

of a single shoe.

We wonder

what happened to its companion

and what was the great disturbance 

that separated them here

of all places

ending this perfect pair.

I always assume it must have been 

something very substantial

because, after all

they were made for each other

their relationship

so much more than gloves

easily lost from lack of commitment.

When new, they were a couple

bound with purpose and common characteristics 

and except for a slight leaning 

of perspective left or right

their direction was united - forward or back

they stood ready, always together

for daily conquests on city streets

or grand evenings of celebration

or flip-flopping on the beach.

Now, in separation

do they think of each other and imagine

they are living some grand new life

glad to be rid of their annoying partner

and that incessant squeak

or have they too been discarded

to dream of things done differently

had they known their last dance

was a prelude to the end of sharing

I always wonder how long it took

before they realized the other was gone

to an unceremonious resting place

unmarked by the side of the road.

Ken Owen   2013

Van Niddy Press

Perfect

You grew up
I grew old,
that's fine.

I've done two things
perfectly in my life,
I'm alright with that.

I wouldn't change
a single thing
about us.

You always make me smile,
I hope I always make you proud.

for Kelly and Kenny, Christmas 2013


Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   December 2013

Smile

I remember that night I saw you

sitting in a pew at church

playing your guitar and singing,

practicing your performance 
for that evening.

The youthful innocence 
of your beautiful music

seemed to drift and float
through the cavernous hall

directly to me.

Then you looked up

and gave me the smile of a friend

with a strange familiarity 

I just couldn't place.

Puzzled,

I smiled and stared 

and tried to attach you 
to some fuzzy memory 

of a nameless person I once saw,

but even then

I wasn't sure I knew you,

but your smile said I should.

You played and smiled again.

I smiled again,

convinced now 
I must be listening to music 
from a friend I'd misplaced.

I began madly rummaging 

through closets of dusty memories,

certain that your name and place 

must be around there somewhere,

while my mind splashed and played in your song

and really didn't want to be bothered

in remembering.

You played and sang and smiled.

I smiled and listened and stared

until the moment finally arrived

when I realized...

...we had never met,

and I had been staring and smiling at you

for the last 5 minutes

like long lost friends reunited.

I felt my face flush red with embarrassment

as I winced slightly at the prospect

of concealing my false bravado

while you finished our private concert.

When we finally met

you were very sweet,

and when you gave 
your performance,
I had to keep reminding myself

that your memory 
had only just arrived.

It took a while,

but I realize now 

what that night was all about:

it was a lesson in trusting 

the power of a smile.

I haven’t seen you since,

but whenever I remember that night

I always smile.

Shift Change at The Skyline Lounge

If you look to the sky 

in the dawn of early morning,

you may notice The Moon 

hanging around The Skyline Lounge,

done with his shift and having a drink 

with the stars who have finished their shine.

Though everyone knows perfectly well

that he sleeps through most of the night

like some old celestial night watchman, 

he recites his grand adventures 

of slipping through shades undrawn

to glisten bodies exhausted from love making, 

and giving fathers light 

to look for monsters under the bed.

He boasts of the majestic splendor of his reflection 

in great waters and snow-capped peaks,

but, as always, 

is overcome with melancholy

at the vision of still bodies on lonely city streets

huddled in his shadow,

and all those beds 

still empty on one side.

The New Morning Sun 

nods in silent agreement

and tops off his drink,

the stars snicker quietly behind his back - “there he goes again”,

and the planets feign their royal indifference

from their card game in the corner - 

they've heard this all before.

And then,

with a quick look at the horizon

and a blink of his sleepy quarter-moon-eye-lid,

The Moon heads off for his next shift

bidding all a good day.

Winter Morning Routine

You start your morning 

in fleece pajamas

summoning the courage

to remove yourself

from the people-dehydrator

known as the electric blanket

that gave you reprieve from the night chill

and dreams of burning desserts.

Mental countdown complete

you burst forth in cannon shot

to land like a Ninja

jabbing your feet in darting thrusts

into strategically placed bedside slippers

and with a sweeping toreador pass

quickly wrap yourself in your wearable blanket - 

the bath robe,

resurrected from the back of the closet

and not worn since that summer morning

when you staggered outside to get the mail

thereby announcing to the neighbors 

you had a cold and would not be going to work.

You race in hurried snow-shoe-like shuffles 
across cold floors 

down the hall to the steamy shower

with only one quick stop 
to wake the slumbering furnace

so you can enjoy breakfast 
in your climate controlled kitchen

while you stare at images of “Real Florida Oranges”

and wonder what, if anything,
The Quaker has to do with oatmeal.

Standing at the doorway

ready to brave the cold brisk morning

you shudder slightly 
at the thought of your ice box car

and then, as it is done every morning, 
you deliver the declaration 
that the winter version of The Bermuda Triangle lives on:

"Where the hell is my other glove?"

Variations on this theme 

performed daily all across the world

yet sometimes

when I see pictures of people shoveling driveways

for the chance to have their cars 

dance a dangerous glide on slippery freeways

in winter-white scenes

I feel a bit embarrassed by us folks here in California

faithfully executing this winter morning routine

and all the while whining about 

51 degrees and cloudless skies.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   November 2013

The Music is You

Photograph by Dianne Woods

If down beat were a butterfly

you'd be jazz

fluttering about.

If music were a river

you'd be a little fish

darting among the rocks.

If song were a forest path

you'd be a doe

wide-eyed in wonder.

If melody were a memory

you’d be a specter

haunting lonely dreams.

If the soloist were a painter

you’d be a sunset

of fading blue love and golden sadness.

If instruments were the voice of the heart

you’d be a golden harp

that sang to angels.

If orchestras were grand mountains

you would be the view from on high

that goes on forever.

Ken Owen   November 2013

Van Niddy Press   

The Sky Tonight

I was going to write you a poem 

when I got home tonight,

about how the sky

right after the storm

as sunset began

looked like a brilliant blue canvas

with splattered milk puddle clouds

that the Sun was trying to light on fire

before it left for the day,

but then I realized

you were probably looking at that same sky 

and thinking the same thing.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   November 2013

Morning Sounds

It's 9:30 in the morning

and I've just reheated 

the same cup of coffee 

for the third time.

I am in the baby's room

with it’s colorful decorations and wall murals

with my once-again-hot-coffee and notebook.

She's fallen back to sleep 
after having breakfast
and a wonderfull playtime session

where we made each other smile
with our chants of "goo-goo"

as I marveled at the thought 

that babies really do say "goo-goo"

and at three months 

she is really becoming quite good at it.

Now 

I can sit quietly 

and listen.

Outside her window

it's raining from a dark grey sky,

trees moan at the wind's command 

to give up helpless leaves,

house gutters make their rain dance

in metallic rhythm,

wet car tires on wet roads

swish people off to work.

Inside her window,

baby breathing sounds

undisturbed
by a loud banging

like some friendly dragon in the attic

whipping it's great tail 

to wake up the old heater
and keep the baby warm,

and the dog snoring at my feet

because he also decided 

it was a good morning

to go back to bed after breakfast 

and some quick relief

in the backyard rain.

Everyone asleep, not to be disturbed

by the sounds of a perfect morning

to be on the inside of the window

in the baby's room.

The coffee is cold again.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   November 2013

The Grandpa Button

You don't have to rock the baby anymore,

there is a machine that will do it for you.

It's a swing with multiple speed settings

and I must admit, it looks pretty comfy.

You don't have to sing to the baby anymore either,

there is a switch on the swing

to play modern renditions of insipid nursery rhyme music

that fall very short on musical merit for adults

by the fourth or fifth time through

while waiting for the baby to fall asleep,

but I guess it does the trick.

You don't have to make funny sounds and faces 

to entertain the baby anymore,

the swing has a button that will play jungle animal sounds

and spin a circular mobile with various shaped objects.

I wonder what a new baby thinks when she hears

the sound of monkeys and lions and elephants

that aren't in the room?

I suppose someone did plenty of research 

so they could say to their Boss:

"Babies love the sound of a roaring lion"

which, unless you’re a baby lion, doesn't make sense to me,

but if that person is the one who also recommended the music

then that might explain things.

And so, in this modern era,

just put the baby in her automated push button swing

and you're free to clean bottles or wash diapers 

or any of the other tasks new parents have to do 

along with everything else in their busy lives

that have been turned completely upside-down

since they brought home their new baby.

There is, however, 

no grandpa button on the automated swing

and I'm thankful for that,

so I can rock the baby in my arms

while making funny faces and weird animal sounds

as I carry her around the house and show her things to look at

and softly sing silly made-up songs to her

like only a grandpa can do.

No button required.

written during nap time, November 2013

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   November 2013

Riffing on Love

Love,

a sweaty promise in the night

to still be there in the morning

because this is different,

a possibility

that may not pay off

but always a bet worth taking.

What does it mean to say 

i love you?

my heart is yours?

your love is mine?

why do we run 

from that we seek,

from those three little words?

some run from it
some run to it

commit to it

promise it

proclaim it

even Hallmark card it

but until you say it 

I hold my breath

that you'll one day say it

that you'll one day feel it.

Just Say It!

…and when you do

the walls come down

and there
two hearts 

staring at each other 

for the first time

naked

exposed

alive with excitement

now

we've put a word to it

and there it is

breathe now

breathe it in

let it flow through you

you've found what you were looking for

that beating heart in your hands

cherish it

praise it

hold it close

hold it near your tender heart

feel it strengthen you

it beats, glows, yearns when we're apart

until reunion bliss smothers us

once again.

The greatest gift 

realized

lucky you

there is nothing like this

ever,

with all emotions at their peak

nothing compares,

this is love

this is love

this is love

and dance

and sing

and laugh

and beam with pride

and smile.

No wonder we love 

and love this so,

the completion

of me

makes us,

Love Dance,

love is a dance

learn the dance

study it

always moving 

and yes

we'll step on each other's toes

inevitable
don't worry

keep moving

and smile

at the jazz dance of love

keep moving

keep me close
and we'll be fine

you and I

we can do this

because

well

you know.

written with minimal edit while listening to Bill Evans solo piano and the dog was sleeping....

Ken Owen    Van Niddy Press   November 2013

Change Not

Were tears to rise

instead of fall

to paint the day

with rainbows small,

if suffering 

did sooth and heal

the heart once whole

from love’s repeal,

if prayer was answered,

if pleas be heard,

if wind carried hope

on the wing of a bird,

if the sun went cold 

in eternal night,

if the moon burned hot 

in lonely light, 

if all this and more 

were true,

change not

my love for you.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   

November 2013

A Day of Knights

    

photograph by Bo Putnam

     And so it was, on a beautiful clear day near the end of a long and twisting road a mile before the end of the western world, The Prodigal, upon his long awaited return, took a walk through the fields of the kingdom with The Mad King who was digging a hole to the other side of the world and all the while screaming, "I shall hold The Pope accountable for his actions because I KNOW things and I'm going to write a letter soon!" "Yes, yes" nodded The Prodigal as he soon realized nothing much had changed here since he’d left.

     Soon after, The Prodigal and his knights, brothers reunited, assembled once again in the great hall to hold court in honor of days since past. They looked deep within and offered their gifts to the collective heart, still beating steady and strong after all this time, while The Keeper of The One, his smile gleaming like a child inside a man, held it in his hand just tightly enough so it would not fly away; so proud was he of the friend he had brought this day, a gentleman of southern smiles and clever sayings in soft mumblings almost indecipherable. Together they all gave tribute to those no longer here with reverent prayer in song.

     It was a day where some read poetry alone in the corner and searched for new ways to describe love and pain while battling the demons of The Great Unspoken for the cause of the greater good, where The Gypsy Queen appeared with a smiling wolf behind dark eyes, where beautiful sad dancers claimed their space and tried to understand why love changes partners, but most importantly it was a day to help all remember that the best way to honor the past is to honor each day.

When the celebration was done The Prodigal thought, “What a strange and joyous place, this palace, this land, where you can keep the clouds away if you let your passion dance burn hot and raise your voice in song,” and he knew this came to him from the spirit of this ancient valley that will never change no matter who works this land or who calls the tune here on a clear day near the end of the long and twisting road a mile before the end of the western world.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   October 26, 2013

Light A Candle

Light a candle

Nay for souls departed

That seek not 

Thy reverence nor honor

Share thy light

With hearts in darkness

Who walk among us 

Lost in solemn searching

That they may see

Hope and love 

Abandoned them not

And shall ne'er be forgotten.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   October 2013

That's That

He's got a key,

he’s always had one and can use it anytime he likes,

to think otherwise all that time was foolish,

so rather than be envious, 

I’ll be thankful I wasn't there when he used it 

because that would have been awkward for everyone,

to say the least...

...which means 

there is more that could be said

but won’t

however

I might have chosen

'that's that'

which would indicate

the final thing

to say about that

had been said

though sometimes 

people choose to say

'it goes without saying'

yet that

is usually followed by

saying precisely that

which they said

would not be said

and of course 

should not to be confused with

'it is what it is'

which

I think

is the new version of

'that's that’

so

in conclusion

I'll stick with 

'to say the least'

as a way to report the minimum

while giving the reader the heavy lifting

to figure out what I didn't say

while making my cryptic understatement

for the sake of brevity

which this poem lost all chance at 

many lines ago.

So now

it goes without saying

nothing more need be said,

so that's that

to say the least.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   October 2013

Johnny Loved Baseball

     It was wooden-clickity-clack-la-la-la music all the way up and over the mountains of Woodside and La Honda on my way to that first gig at the old store in San Gregorio. Peter couldn’t do the gig so he recommended me to the boys in the band. I played their CDs in the car on the way there. Someone told me once “You fucking drummers wouldn’t learn any song without CD players in your car!” and he was right. It was all nice little love songs with mysterious lyrics and hushed singing and I thought this will be nice and easy on a beautiful day. The music was lilting and beautiful and perfect for the drive through redwood forests and down the mountain past expansive fields full of cows and sunflowers, but it was anything but wooden-clickity-clack-la-la-la music when I got there.

     There was Johnny, dressed in black pants, black boots, a black shirt and playing a black guitar and looking imposing like the side of a great dark mountain at night where you can’t really judge how high or long but you know it’s big, real big, but his smile gave him away; it projected an honest-to-goodness ray of warm light and you knew instantly he was OK and there was nothing to worry about.

     Johnny played his guitar as hard as he could on every song, taking huge mighty swings like a guide with a machete clearing a path in a jungle. He took one solo while shouting and grunting and making noises as if his guitar couldn't say everything he needed to say and I thought, “ Who is this guy?! I’m following him!”  His solos made the sound of solid doubles off the base of the wall and produced majestic home runs that made everyone gasp and hoot, even his strikeouts you had to admire for the sheer beauty of his swinging so hard on every pitch.

Johnny loved baseball.

     So with me all jacked up following Johnny and making bashes and splashes and blams right behind his every note, we brought the wooden-clickety-clack-la-la-la music to a different place, took it on a different road entirely, and I saw David smiling with a grin of pure joy that this giant of a man had found someone to run behind him and scream in his ear that it was OK to swing away as hard as he could because I’d be right there to play catch with his notes and if we dropped the ball every once and a while, who cares?

Charlie said “There’s a lot of DNA on that guitar.” Sure enough true. 

     We all followed Johnny, looked to him to see what he would do, where we should go, but we eventually lost him on the trail. He went on ahead and we couldn't follow, and we lost our spirit for adventure when we lost our guide. We rambled around for a while, but it was never the same, the path never looked as good and clear. We’ll all meet up with him again sooner or later. I’ll bet he is still swinging away, hard as ever.


Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   October 2013

On The Road

I am reading Jack Kerouac's "On The Road" for the first time.

You've been warned. I can feel the shift.

     Been working a lot in North Beach over the last year, mostly on Grant Street at The Saloon, The City's oldest bar. Story has it The City firemen saved it from the 1906 earthquake because that's where they did most of their drinking. The original Ground Zero. It has landmark status and smells like a toilet and has some of the best blues bands in The City. It has taken some getting use to working there, but I think I'm getting the hang of it. The place is full of old drunks and burn-outs and fidgety bar tenders and frightened one-beer tourists, yet I always seem to meet cool surfer tourists from Australia there who love the place and the way we Americans play the blues and rock and roll. "They'd go bonkers fer ya in Asstraawlia, Mate!"

     During a break between sets someone pointed out the original piss-trough directly at the base of the long bar. Seems when the bar was built they didn't want the male patrons to interrupt their drinking in order to make room for a few new beers. I didn't believe it at first, then the same story teller pointed out the close proximity of the sewer line cover to the front door, something you'd not see anywhere else. Of course, the piss-trough is no longer in service, but that doesn't keep the smell of The Saloon from being anything but toilet-like. The trick to playing music at The Saloon is, once you are inside to stay inside as long as possible, which seems counter-intuitive, but once you get accustomed to the smell you're fine; leaving for fresh air and coming back in becomes problematic. Someone told me there are rooms upstairs which is the cheapest rent in The City. One room big enough for a small cot. The rooms used to be part of a brothel, so no matter where your pride was dangling in relation to your pants, you had everything you needed at The Saloon.

     So one night while playing music there and failing miserable to pay attention, it came to me that I had never read "On The Road" by Jack Kerouac, and look where I was! North Beach, Home of The Beats! So during a break I went down to City Lights book store, the center of the Beat universe, and figured to easily grab a copy from a display set up right in front for tourists, but I couldn't find any poetry which I found out later was up on the third floor which I didn't know about. That's when I remembered the Beat Museum, and yes, there is such a place, two doors down from the world famous Condor strip club, home of stripper Carol Doda in the 60s and 70s. I've played music in the Condor a few times, subbed for a guy in a jazz/r&b band with a lady singer,  but I couldn't keep my focus because right above her in my line of sight was a screen showing the history of burlesque with tassels going in every direction. Good band, long night.

     So I ran into The Beat Museum and called out "I need a copy of 'On The Road'." The proprietor of the store sprang into action and quickly responded "Which version?" Yes, multiple versions lay on the display near the front door. My perplexed look gave him the right response; "If you've never read it, try this one", which was a simple paperback,  not the original more detailed 'scroll version'. I liked the idea of buying this book here, like buying a book about jazz in Congo Square in New Orleans. Perfect.

     I've read some of his poetry and spontaneous prose before and it's pretty amazing stuff; one poem will be drunken rambling bullshit, and the next will be a god damn masterpiece. There's hope for my writing yet.

     I can imagine how this book must have caused quite a stir back in the time of post-war America; stories of young people wandering coast to coast living on coffee and cigarettes and box cars and pan handling for money. That kind of life would give a guy plenty to write about. So the next time I have trouble paying attention while playing music for drunken nutballs at The Saloon, I'll remind myself that I'm in a place where Kerouac and Cassidy and all them cats probably had many a glass of beer while figuring out where to get money for their next great road trip, and for all I know, those cats would have had no problem using the piss-trough and the rooms upstairs.


Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   October 2013

Like You Never Left

Walk right in,

take your place

like you never left

because you can

and you should.

I knew you’d be back someday,

if only for a short while

to tell us great adventures stories

of lush forests in canyons deep 

with strange creatures from distant lands...

...and just like that,

smoldering fires burn again.

Together

we’ll give passion to the old songs

while we sing to the spirit in the window,

and the day you left 

will seem like a bad dream 

from long ago.

(Rise above it, rise above it, it’s the right thing to do.)

Welcome home

my old friend,

back to the place

where our journey began,

we’ve lived lifetimes since then.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   October 2013

Passion in Reserve

Passion in reserve

waiting patiently for love

to answer the phone.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   October 2013

A Million Billions to One

Consider the odds

that you and I are here

and found each other

to share

a passing glance

a genuine smile

a seeking day

a warm meal

a slow walk

a moment in time.

Consider the things 

that make us

shape us

break us

rebuild us,

all those things worked to perfection

to put us there and then

here and now.

Consider the events

in the history of time immemorial

that had to line up just as they did

so that you and I 

could have a walk on an empty beach 

that windless day 

when the clouds hung still like paintings.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   October 2013

Sunday

Dawn breaks

as the world rolls slowly over

town by town, country by country,

into a rising tide of Sunday.

The first wave 

lapping at your toes

as we lay together,

breakfast in bed

after one more kiss

one more dream,

then a peek through the curtains

at Sunday skies.

Ankle deep in Sunday,

the possibilities of the day

buzzing like summer bees

drifting on the smell of bacon and coffee.

All God's children

wading through their sins

on the penitent path

seek forgiveness 

in their own way and place,

alone or together,

because that's what they've always done

on Sunday.

A day of chores, a day of rest,

naps on couches and freshly mown grass,

games watched and played,

gardens, parks, beaches,

bike rides and trail walks

when someone looks at the sky and says

“The day is half gone already!”

and you realize

you are waist-deep in Sunday.

Sunday Dinner,

the meal for family

here and remembered

as waves of Sunday pound your chest,

a toast to love and health,

grateful

for one more Sunday.

Too tired to tread Sunday waters,

with one big breath

you slip under,

drifting

until dream tide leaves you 

to wake on gentle shores,

as the world rolls slowly over 

town by town, country by country

into a rising tide of Monday.

Ken Owen     October 2013

Van Niddy Press 

Spiderman Lunchbox

We saw him on our morning walk

a small boy 

tethered, just barely

hand in mother’s hand

on their way to the school 

next to the park.

He looked at Jack The Dog with wonderment

and looked at me briefly

to see what type of person 

walks a great beast in the park.

He smiled as we distracted his focus a few times

but moving always forward

he could barely contain his excitement

as he drew near his destination.

And I tried to remember 

what it felt like

to have so much excitement 

buzzing around inside you

that it made you skip
while Mom escorted you to that magical room

that smelled of paste and disinfectant

where your best friends in the whole-wide-world 

would be there waiting for you, excited on your arrival,

bursting to ask you great questions 

and compare stories of

what you saw on TV last night
as we waited for those sessions
out on the hungry concrete 

that ate skin from girl’s knees and boy’s elbows

while we we ran and screamed with abandon

to the sound of playing on clanking metals bars

and hoped to be picked 

for the greatest kickball game

15 minutes would allow.

And I wondered

what was in his Spiderman lunchbox.

Is it still a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (no crust),

lots of wee-size snacks

not made for kids but for tired moms,

and a small box of something 

trying to pass itself off as real juice (100% natural!),
or did his lunch box come with a matching thermos

that now holds the eternal smell of spoiled milk?

And when opening his lunch 

and seeing slices of apple or celery (good for trading with a girl)

instead of those mini-cupcakes,

is this what will teach him 

his first lessons in repeated disappointment 

in the name of "It's good for you"..?

So,

what would it take 

to get you to skip to work tomorrow

in appreciation of the possibilities 

of another beautiful day?
Once upon a time

it was as simple as the anticipation 

of what's in your Spiderman lunchbox.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   September 2013

Tired

On a tired old day

a tired old man

and his tired old dog

sought the shade

of a tired old tree

to escape the heat

from a tired old sun

that beat down on a tired old world.

The tired old man 

looked at the tired old dog and said,

"I'm worried about these problems of mine.

I don't know what to do."

The tired old dog did not say anything.

Then the tired old dog 

looked up at the tired old man 

and turned his tired old head slightly to the right 

as if he knew what the tired old man had said 

but was unsure as to why he had said it, 

as if he was thinking it all over very carefully, 

as if he knew this was very important 

and deserved a good answer.

The tired old dog had no answer.

"Perhaps if we sit here a little longer, 

something will come to me" 

said the tired old man.

The tired old dog looked at him as if to say,

"That seems reasonable to me."

They both thought about things for a while longer 

and watched the tired old world go by.

The tired old dog had no objection 

to more time in the shade of a tired old tree.

He sighed heavily and put his tired old head

on the cool grass under the tired old tree

and stretched out his tired old dog bones.

"Don't worry, I'll figure something out"

said the tired old man,

and he went back to thinking 

about his tired old problems

that were holding him down 

with the weight of this tired old world.

The tired old dog took a deep breath 

and sighed a long tired sigh 

and looked at the tired old man as if to say, 

"You'll think of something. You always do. 

Let me know when you've got an idea.

I'll be right here."

And the tired old dog took a nap,

because thats what you do 

in the shade of a tired old tree

to escape the heat 

from a tired old sun

on a tired old day

in this tired old world.

Ken Owen    Van Niddy Press   September 2013

The View From Here

have a seat

right here 

next to me,

we'll dream share

as the sun 

fades morning mist

into futures revealed,

our gift of love 

received in reverence,

hearts bound together

forever.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   September 2013

Notes From A Sickbed

   --- ~ ---

I've been in bed for two days with excruciating and debilitating back pain. I can't tell if the pain pills are helping with the pain, but they are offering up words like debilitating and excruciating, so I suppose they are having some affect. I was hoping for exhilarating, but it seems there is no exhilarating in these pills, only fuzzy nap times with dreams of people you haven't seen in twenty years rushing through your room and yelling at you that you are late - though they never say for what - and I just look up at them with sleepy eyes and sigh "Yes, I'm late again, but I can't move so go on without me". I don't know where they are going or what I'm missing, but when you can't move from your bed you feel like the whole world is having a party to which you were not invited, a great and joyous celebration going on right outside your window and just over your back wall, but you can't get there from here, and you're late.

And you know that's not true, but still...

Jack The Dog knew I was in pain by the loud guttural yelps I made every time I moved the wrong way. I didn’t know I could make sounds like that. My muscles were howling, I was howling, and Jack The Dog was concerned. You could see it in his face. He knew the daily walk was a goner, and I felt bad about that. He came and lay down with me and put his head on my lap. I almost cried. I like to think he was concerned for me and not just mourning the loss of our morning walk, but that’s the great thing about dogs; you can project anything you want onto a dog, and it works.

Apparently there are large doses of boring in these pills as well, because you cant hurt yourself, in theory, when you are lying around bored. In all our daily hustle and bustle, we long for days in bed with no outside expectations, yet when it arrives it's just boring, no matter how many lists you make or books you stack on the night stand or old movies you plan to watch. Up at 4:00 a.m.? Sure, why not. Nap after breakfast? Not a problem, you've no where to go.

   --- ~ ---

There is nothing to see outside the bedroom window I have not all ready seen. Nothing new to inspire great stanzas of poetry or intellectual observations. All I have are talking heads on the television, and after listening to what they had to say, I found it much more entertaining to turn the sound off and try to imagine what they had to say or give them new lines.

We are getting sensitive as we get older. As a society, I mean. In old movies, cigarettes were everywhere; in church, at the dinner table, places we could not imagine now. I grew up around cigarettes. Both my parents smoked cigarettes. I became accustomed to the smell because it was everywhere. Now, people get very upset by the smell of cigarettes. We've talked ourselves into it, or out of it, depending on how you like to look at it. There may be something to this 'second hand smoke' business, but I have always been skeptical of it. Sure, cigarettes are not good for you, but you have to admit that the characters in an old detective movies looked just fine holding a cigarette. Of course, they are all dead of lung cancer by now, but hey, back then, they looked great. Andre Aggasi once said “Image is everything” in a commercial, but I bet he never smoked a cigarette in his life. Good for him.

Talking on the phone bothers me more than cigarettes. Sharing a bit of your second hand smoke does not cause me to have great fits of indignation at you stepping on my personal freedoms, but if given the choice, I'd rather not share your telephone conversation. How did your husband ever do any grocery shopping before he was able to call you from aisle 6A with a question of low sodium or gluten free? I am most certain that anyone living in a large city that has a phone conversation while walking in a cross walk is telling the world that they laugh at death.

Gluten. Don't get me started....

...and now there are words we can't say anymore. For some of those words it's probably a good thing. It bothered me at first because I don't like being told by society’s latest meme what I can not say or do, but I think I get it now. It's about respect, or more of it, to be exact. To call someone a name is to give up on the argument and reasoning and to dive straight into anger, and thats not the best way to get anywhere.

    --- ~ ---

With creditors buzzing all around him 

like flies on a summer day,

he spent the last of his money

on a book of poems

and that made him chuckle.

“No better way to escape,” he thought.

    --- ~ ---

They called him The Bond King. He did not appear regal to me in any sense. Perhaps for this interview he chose not to wear his Bond King crown. I could not tell if he was wearing a Bond King ring, and he seemed to carry no Bond King staff or shield. No outward trappings or markings of his royal rank, just a line across the bottom of the screen stating his title: The Bond King. He had a wisp of hair on his very polished dome, no royal wig under no royal mitre. Just a title. With the sound off on the television, I would not learn how he earned his title. I would not learn if he had, at one time, been a lowly Bond Duke, or perhaps he'd been born a Bond Prince from royal lineage and when the previous Bond King passed on to the Great Kingdom of Investment Products in the sky he was next in line to the throne. I would not learn if he was married to The Bond Queen, or if all the young girls of the kingdom were scurrying about to get invitations to the Bond King's Ball so that they may make a lasting impression on The Bond King. No matter. I've taken this as far as I should, I think, and will not make any reference to The Bond King and Queen producing little royal dividends. I thought of it, but I fear thats the pain medication making its way through my thought grinder.  I am sure it's still good to be the King of anything.

   --- ~ ---

According to the news report, you can now buy a car wrapped in bacon. They are decals, of course, but still...I assume they sell like crazy. After all, who wouldn't want a car with pictures of bacon on it? I can think of at least three people who would consider it. Yes, everything goes better with bacon. From here, I can not think of one thing that would not benefit from a side order of bacon. Not one.

    --- ~ ---

"Get the insurance you deserve!", was the exclamation from the man in the white lab coat whom, I assume, is an actor paid to look like a doctor but, when you stare at them long enough, they never look quite convincing. I’d be concerned if this actor came into the room and asked about my back problems.

"Call now!", it said.

Maybe later, it's nap time.

   --- ~ ---

We are on the brink of war...again....and theories are popping up like spring flowers shouting the answer as to why. One of them is right, but well never know which one, because soon, before anyone has a chance to sit down and rationally decide what we should do while not using names we shouldn't use in one of those large conference rooms with big round tables that used to have giant glass ash trays for people needing to smoke cigarettes in order to decide these great things, I’ll be watching video footage at 4:00a.m. live from our newest skirmish, and then I'll turn the sound back on the television, and thats when the party outside my window will be over.


Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   September 2013