Tuesday, June 25, 2013

I Never Heard Her Sing

She's gone to search new places
for new people and new things,
and I never heard her sing,
never heard her sing.

With a voice like calming breezes
and a wind upon a wing,
but I never heard her sing,
never heard her sing.

I brought her songs and melodies
of sunshine and of rain,
but all that was in vain,
all in vain.

She could not sing my songs of love
while living with the pain,
now she’ll not come again,
ne'er again.

For me she could not sing,
for me she could not sing,
so I gather all the questions
I laid at her door,
and won’t ask why anymore.

When she finds love to fill her heart
and the joy that it will bring,
the world will hear her sing,
hear her sing.

Until then my days go by
always remembering 
that I never heard her sing,
never heard her sing.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   June 2013

Thursday, June 13, 2013

The Dead Dream Boneyard

It was clear there were some bad things stuck in his thought grinder.

It kept grinding out the same bad thoughts over and over, and it was turning his chameleon brain into some sort of cemetery for dead dreams. He even gave it a name: 

“The Dead Dream Boneyard" 

That made him laugh...and creeped him out a little at the same time.

He was spending way too much time visiting his Dead Dream Boneyard, where broken promises stood like crosses marking spots where rows and rows of dreams were laid to rest, one after another, silent forever. Some dreams had lived long and produced days like wonderful blossoming flowers and nights like they write about in love poems, while other dreams had died young and never saw their promise fulfilled.

He wasn't sure which dreams hurt more to visit. 

No one wants to bury a dream. It's a very sad thing but you have to bury a dream when its dead, there is just no getting around it. Someone has to step up and proclaim, "I'm sorry, we did everything we could. The dream is gone." Mourners come once to say their good-byes when dreams die and say things like “What happened?’ and “If you need anything at all...” and then they go away and are thankful their dreams are still around. Everyone knew what killed the dreams but no one wanted to talk about it or accept responsibility for what happened, and everyone just looked the other way and nervously shuffled passed the rows and rows of dead dreams, but not him. 

He would bring thoughts from his thought grinder in bunches like flowers to each dead dream and plant them with prayers of forgiveness and water them with tears of longing while muttering bits of finely crafted stories under his breath that sounded like nonsense but made him feel better about what happened to these dreams. Then he'd dust off the broken promise markers, smoothing off the rough edges no one liked to see, and like rubbing dusty old magic lamps the dead dreams would come to life and start floating by like old photographs hung in puffy white clouds of memory.

To spend time with old dead dreams is to steal time from making new dreams, and he knew that, but still he came to the Dead Dream Boneyard. And when he stayed too long, dreams that were angry they were dead would howl at him on cold bitter winds that made him turn up his collar and head for home, and he would think to himself, "That's it, no more visits to this Dead Dream Boneyard for me. I'm done with this!" But he always went back.

What he needed was something new to go through the thought grinder of his chameleon brain so he could make some new dreams, but it’s hard to think new thoughts and make new dreams when you’ve just left The Dead Dream Boneyard.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   May 2013

Monday, June 10, 2013

The Cool Spot

Jack The Dog has a cool spot in the house where he likes to lay. It's in the hallway, and it's a pain in the ass for him to be there because you have to walk around him all the time but that's his spot, and we all need a spot and that's his so that's that.

It can take a long time to find your spot. It's no easy thing. He's found his spot and I respect that. When he's in his spot, I go around.

It's near the heater vent where air from under the house comes up and keeps him cool on hot summer nights. He's a smart dog, he knows there are small bits of cool air from under the house that drift up and he lays there and collects them. Good for him. He is a 100 pound dog laying in the middle of the hallway in everyone's way and looking at you to say "Sorry, this is my cool spot and I ain't moving. It too late and it's too hot and I'm too tired, so go around." And we do.

I'm still looking for my cool spot. 

There were a few times when I thought I'd found it, but in the end I was just in people's way and I knew it and I had no right to tell people to go around me. The dog is way ahead of me here. He's one smart dog and I am learning a lot from him. When I find my one true cool spot that I deserve, I'll know it, and I'm going to lay down and tell everyone else to go around.


Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   May 2013