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

Morning is a Woman

Morning is a woman

cloudy-eyed

humming softly

sheer gown of night

tossed slowly to the floor

standing bare with possibility

in front of her wardrobe of seasons

deciding her mood

today

a flowing sky blue dress 

with pattern of easy clouds

the morning star her necklace

hair down to catch the wind

with perfume of evening rain.

I hate to see her leave.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   October 2014

House Party

October was tipsy

and having a wonderful time

but not managing things very well

a few rainy days

then a week of heatwave

and the drought records were making everyone crazy

then Fall showed up 

late to the party and screamed

"What the hell are you guys doing?!"

Summer and Winter 

sitting together on the couch and mumbling

gave each other that "party over" look

then Summer passed out

and Winter got up to take a shower

and get ready for work with a big headache

as Fall started cleaning up

and October stumbled to the door

while sheepishly looking for his coat.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   

October 2014

Demon Dance: Notes from Hell's Saloon

No Beard, Part 1: A beautiful woman I know was walking slowly across the dance floor towards me; it was a vision I'll never forget: grinning slightly, eyes smiling, looking right through me while she gave me silent commands to 'stay right there, here I come,' and I froze in my steps. Trying to keep eye contact with her as she came towards me was like staring at the Sun. Then, suddenly, she tried to kiss me on the lips. I had no reason to expect this, no idea what she was doing or why; I was baffled, the situation threw me completely off course. I hugged her with genuine affection and as I released her she did it again and was successful. It was sweet; it was delicate. I was confused and embarrassed at my embarrassment. She had no way to know about my rule: I never kiss any woman on the lips except the woman I am with: date, girl friend, wife, whatever . . . so it's always a quick head-dodge when someone tries that little innocent peck on the lips with me, though in this instance many parts of my conscience were immediately screaming for a suspension of such a silly rule, but it has become a natural reflex action for me now. (I wonder what people think? Germ-A-Phobe? Too good for my kiss? Freak? All of the above . . . ?)

    Turns out, I had shaved off my beard, and she was checking out what it felt like to kiss me without it (though she had never kissed me with it). "I don't know" she said, staring and thinking and comparing the incomparable, "I like it both ways!" to which we both exploded in laughter at the ridiculous double meaning of the remark she just made on the dance floor of Hell's Saloon. I'm not sure who blushed more, me or her.

No Beard, Part 2: "You’re gettin' (sex...but that's not what he said), aren't you!" he shouted as he made the clean-shaven motion across his face referring to my now-gone-beard, which I had forgotten about but kept getting reminders from people on how much I was associated with it. "No, that's why I shaved it -- to get some," was all I could come up with from my Clever Comeback Department, which seems suspiciously depleted as of late. He made the startled look of displeasure at my response (there was no correct response other than to lie and say 'yes'), as if to say, either way, don't go changing yourself for that, and he was right to think that.

The Traveler: It was good to see her after all this time. She had been traveling extensively and would be in town now while she figured her plans for the future. She talked non-stop for 10 minutes and reduced me to a silent head-bobber while I offered an occasional "uh-huh" as she weaved one adventure story into another, and I couldn't blame her one bit. I was jealous listening to her stories because she had been doing what I dream of: traveling to places you hear about and experiencing the beautiful locations of this great country. She was alive and buzzing, full of stories and pictures and scenes and could barely contain them. Jealous, me.

The Dark Side (a conversation on the band stand):

Musician 1: "Hang on, 'cause next set we're going to the Dark Side." 

Musician 2: "I don't know about you but I'm already there."

Musician 3: "Me too, man. Really, what are you expecting, eye liner?!"

It made perfect sense at the time.

Demon Dance: . . . and the dance floor was full of the usual wild dervish dancing, and I noticed that there are Drinkers Who Dance and Dancers Who Drink, two completely different animals: serious dancers put their drinks down when they dance which thereby gives priority to their Demon Dancing (not by much) over their drinking, while serious drinkers never put their drink down no matter what they are attempting (some might say they are multi-tasking, but I think that's modern day bullshit). There is an older women who comes in using a walker then sets it aside and goes immediately to the dance floor which invokes a mystical Lourdes-like healing quality to the proceedings. . . there is a young war veteran who sits quietly, assessing the musicianship while nursing his beer that I assume Uncle Sam buys for him on some sort of monthly pension for his service (I hope). . . there are people of all races and colors, smiling, staring, laughing, and drunks who like to stay in dark corners and never move from their seat at the bar. . . and there are happy tourists who were frightened when they walked into the place that everyone at the hotel told them they must go see, but then the band started, and the wild dancing began, and they realized what this place was, and they embraced it like they belonged even though it smelled a lot like what Hell must smell like - an eternity of piss and puke and sweat and cheap whiskey and stale beer. . .and the musicians were just as sweaty as and even more glassy-eyed than the dancers and drinkers from too much time in the alley between sets.

    I am there, slightly stoned, watching, and I'm thinking this is the bar scene in Hell, and it's wonderful and frightening and these people weren't damned here, they came willingly and they love it, and they'll be back . . . and I fit right in . . . and I'll be back.

- North Beach, San Francisco, Fall 2014