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