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.