Vindication

Vindication

may heal the mind

but never the heart.


Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   July 2013

The Boulevard

3:00am

the silence of the boulevard

woke me up.

Domes of light 

from small hanging moons

     night lights for cars 

guide the way home.

My hope,

everyone is where

they wanted to be.

The hush has a buzz in it,

     (why do you tilt your head to make it out?)

probably invisible waves from Radio City

    (why do we imagine they're blue?)

on their way through the ether.

    (if no one hears them, do they just keep going..?)

The sound

of sound 

you can't hear.

In a few hours

lights off,

all quiet lost, 

the boulevard drowns

in waves of sound.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   July 2013

Curiosity Saved The Street Crazy

It was a strange night.

When the band took a break, the locals spilled into the alley and started putting on a weirder-than-usual show outside the sweaty bar, blowing shit up and yelling and screaming with random outbursts of indecipherable anger rants. A drunk was shouting and demanding respect and promptly received a kick in the chest from the door man. Someone looked at the drunk, and as if to give him the summary of his just received lesson said, “You gotta earn respect,” then shook his head and went back inside the bar. The whole episode didn't seem to phase anyone but me, so I went back inside to escape the street crazy. Yeah, the bar was safer than the street. Frying pan or fire.

In the midst of all the madness someone told me all the affirmations they were practicing, and it was all very nice chit-chat until she said she was trying to develop her curiosity. It took a few seconds for that to make its way through my old thought grinder, but when it did the noise in the bar faded into the background and then curiosity was all I could think about:

Curiosity keeps you moving forward like a shark in the life’s waters.

You cant be curious living life with your head down and going through the motions.

You can’t be curious watching TV.

You can’t be curious staring at the bottom of one more gin and tonic.

And for those playing along at home, I am fairly certain that being curious as to who will be your next American Idol does not count.

So, what can you learn from the crazy people you see in sweaty bars?

Be curious and ask the right questions, because if you ask the wrong questions you’ll get the wrong answers and make the wrong opinions, and then you’ll end up drunk in the alley by the bar screaming at people and getting kicked in the chest and no one will care because you’re just another asshole with an opinion demanding respect you haven’t earned.

And how will you know what the right question is?

Good question.

Morning Summer Rain

Morning summer rain

makes hot and steamy sidewalks

when the sun returns.

Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   July 2013

Aubergine

I roamed the distant land of Aubergine,

with rolling hills of luscious vine

and valleys long serene,

as I searched to find 

the meaning for my time.

My suffering carried the weight of the Calvary Cross,

up twisted roads without rest

past once grand views now lost,

as I tried my best

to understand life’s test.

I found a fancy nest of memories,

with paintings of forgotten times

scattered like faded leaves,

with song and wine

I mourned things left behind.

False reflections gleamed from natures window,

our place at life’s lush banquet

when you swore I held your soul,

I must learn to forget

lost love's regret.

All I know now of this Glory Land,
where morning fog from distant seas

floats with grace of a gentle lamb,

forgiveness is the breeze

that sways the trees.

I took the long way home from Aubergine,

the winding country road stretched long

like a sleepy summer dream,

with memories to song

I travel on.

for d.b. and n.i.

Ken Owen,  Van Niddy Press,  Sebastopol,  CA,  Summer 2013

I Never Heard Her Sing

She's gone to search new places

for new people and new things,

and I never heard her sing,

never heard her sing.

With a voice like calming breezes

and a wind upon a wing,

but I never heard her sing,

never heard her sing.

I brought her songs and melodies

of sunshine and of rain,

but all that was in vain,

all in vain.

She could not sing my songs of love

while living with the pain,

now she’ll not come again,

ne'er again.

For me she could not sing,

for me she could not sing,

so I gather all the questions

I laid at her door,

and won’t ask why anymore.

When she finds love to fill her heart

and the joy that it will bring,

the world will hear her sing,

hear her sing.

Until then my days go by

always remembering 

that I never heard her sing,

never heard her sing.


Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   June 2013

The Dead Dream Boneyard

It was clear there were some bad things stuck in his thought grinder.

It kept grinding out the same bad thoughts over and over, and it was turning his chameleon brain into some sort of cemetery for dead dreams. He even gave it a name: 

“The Dead Dream Boneyard" 

That made him laugh...and creeped him out a little at the same time.

He was spending way too much time visiting his Dead Dream Boneyard, where broken promises stood like crosses marking spots where rows and rows of dreams were laid to rest, one after another, silent forever. Some dreams had lived long and produced days like wonderful blossoming flowers and nights like they write about in love poems, while other dreams had died young and never saw their promise fulfilled.

He wasn't sure which dreams hurt more to visit. 

No one wants to bury a dream. It's a very sad thing but you have to bury a dream when its dead, there is just no getting around it. Someone has to step up and proclaim, "I'm sorry, we did everything we could. The dream is gone." Mourners come once to say their good-byes when dreams die and say things like “What happened?’ and “If you need anything at all...” and then they go away and are thankful their dreams are still around. Everyone knew what killed the dreams but no one wanted to talk about it or accept responsibility for what happened, and everyone just looked the other way and nervously shuffled passed the rows and rows of dead dreams, but not him. 

He would bring thoughts from his thought grinder in bunches like flowers to each dead dream and plant them with prayers of forgiveness and water them with tears of longing while muttering bits of finely crafted stories under his breath that sounded like nonsense but made him feel better about what happened to these dreams. Then he'd dust off the broken promise markers, smoothing off the rough edges no one liked to see, and like rubbing dusty old magic lamps the dead dreams would come to life and start floating by like old photographs hung in puffy white clouds of memory.

To spend time with old dead dreams is to steal time from making new dreams, and he knew that, but still he came to the Dead Dream Boneyard. And when he stayed too long, dreams that were angry they were dead would howl at him on cold bitter winds that made him turn up his collar and head for home, and he would think to himself, "That's it, no more visits to this Dead Dream Boneyard for me. I'm done with this!" But he always went back.

What he needed was something new to go through the thought grinder of his chameleon brain so he could make some new dreams, but it’s hard to think new thoughts and make new dreams when you’ve just left The Dead Dream Boneyard.


Ken Owen   Van Niddy Press   May 2013