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