Ramblings from Ken Owen
Behind me
living visions
of past struggles and joys
my grown children making their way
as child becomes parent
Ahead of me
my destiny
helping my elders
find comfort in their days of reflection
as parent becomes child
With me
daily gratitude
for all days received
ahead and behind
as I become me
Ken Owen January 2024
Van Niddy Press
A gust of wind
sent down from the gods on high
made its way
down the snowy pure-clean mountains
down through deep valleys and across green fields
to the sea where it stirred the great waters
and the currents and clouds gladly followed
until it dragged crashing waves upon the distant shore
to announce its arrival
and as it flew through towns and cities
howling down the concrete canyons
and the rich man raised his collar
and the poor man searched for shelter
and you and I huddled for warmth
as we walked that crowded street
it continued its long journey
until it found the battlefields of war
and carried the billowing clouds of destruction
and the smell of death and despair
back to the heavens to let the gods know
though their winds of change blow long and hard
man stands as still as a mountain
that takes years to form anew.
One night I was out drivin’ and thinkin’ and lookin’ for signs of what my next move might be, but I was gettin’ no answers from the parade of headlights underneath a blanket of stars as the broken white lines sliced the blacktop right through the heart of an endless night. And as my mind drifted through all the lost possibilities left behind on roads not taken, a faint blue glow lit up the road as I came upon an all-night roadside diner with a jittery neon sign struggling to say “OPEN”. So I pulled into the empty gravel parking lot and let my headlights and the hiss of a grateful engine announce my arrival to no one in particular.
The diner was small but clean enough with no customers if you don’t count the drunk snoring in the last booth. The cook was leanin’ against a cold stove reading the horse-racing form and lookin’ for a winner down in Tijuana while the Mexican radio station reminded you that you don’t have to know the language to know it’s a sad song. I was letting the scene take its place in my mind when an old waitress looked up at me, laughed and said, “Looks like you beat the crowd, boy; anywhere you like,” and waved her hand like a queen blessing the palace with her dangling cigarette like a scepter that froze time.
So I picked a booth and collapsed my weary self down exhaling my burdens like the sigh of a Norther as the broken spring in the seat reminded me my search for comfort-mental and physical-wasn’t over, and the only thought I could muster was, “…might as well order somethin’.”
The waitress got up slowly, takin’ her time and, obviously not pleased with me choosing the booth furthest away from her royal throne, made her way towards me managing a painful limp that made me feel guilty and my feet hurt just from watching her.
“Somethin’ to drink?”, she said.
“Naw,” I said, “just coffee.”
It seemed that after years of taking a beating from the same lesson every night, one sign had finally stayed lit long enough to find its way into my view and make me realize that my response to the question, “Something to drink?”, was going to require a bit more consideration on my part from now on.
-KO and PR, Fall 2023
There seems to be
a mental storage closet in my
chameleon brain
placed there by either
millions of years of evolution
or a flaw in the great design
whose sole purpose
is to keep certain
images and melodies
locked away and long forgotten
until some mental misfire
of questionable origin demands
we reach in and dust off
these ancient memories
for further inspection
like my young joy at being
picked for kickball that day
during 6th grade recess
or the image of my father smiling
when he looked at me holding
his first grand daughter.
I sometimes wonder
if these random thoughts could be
generated by bits of cosmic energy
telling us a review is needed to make sure
something of significance was not overlooked
and its life lesson received.
But
after further review
I seriously doubt it
because
try as I might
I could find no reason why
I woke up this morning with
‘Danke Schoen’ by Wayne Newton
playing in my head.
Perhaps
there’s a lesson in there
somewhere.
Ken Owen September 2023
Van Niddy Press
how many times a day
do you find yourself |
| Photograph by Dianne Woods |
I remember the good old days
when only rich engineers from the valley
could afford the newest luxury
in automotive technology
but at least those folks
could actually drive their Teslas
like spoiled kids with a new toy
zip whoosh gone
down the freeway
and quickly out of your
experience.
Now
the novelty of
owning this latest fad
has been passed down
to the masses
who still don’t know
how to drive
or park in the parking lot
at Trader Joe’s
no matter what they drive.
Tesla Cars: the Boston Terriers of the automotive world.
Ken Owen August 2023
Van Niddy Press
