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