Her

(Overachieving with women, continued...)

I am fairly certain

she could craft a 

winning argument

to any proposition 

I might propose

while talking 

in her 

sleep.

Ken Owen   January 2020

Van Niddy Press

Excuse Me, Miss Dickinson

while at my

favorite book store

I told my friend the 

proprietor 

that he had things in the 

poetry section 

arranged in such a way 

that I had to move 

Emily Dickinson

to get to

Charles Bukowski.

the ironic imagery

was not lost on

me.

Bukowski

hiding behind

Dickinson,

the two of them

living next to each other 

in the only place

where that would be 

possible.

so I tried

imagining

them living next to each other 

in the same 

apartment complex,

each day

holed up in 

their rooms 

writing their observations

within and without,

her window shade open,

the glass clean and sparkling

as she wrote letters

to keep friends close and

visitors away,

and his dirty shade

tattered and closed

while he peered out only 

to see who rang his doorbell 

while he hid

from the landlord,

and each night

Miss Dickinson banging on 

the wall of her apartment

to tell Bukowski

to turn down his radio

as they both sat

alone

in self-imposed

seclusion.

Bukowski

living next door to

Dickinson.

only in the

poetry

section.

Ken Owen
Van Niddy Press   January 2020

How To Be

I was having a dream 

that I could not sleep

quite strange I’m sure you’d agree, 

‘cause I couldn’t tell 

who was more confused

the me in the dream or me.

So when I woke up 

I decided

not to question the things that I see,

but enjoy the millions 

of miracle ways

that things know just how to be.

There’s no sense in telling

a river how to run

or a mirror how to look,

and I’ll never tell

a map where it is

or how you should end your book.

I’ll never direct 

the wind to sing

or teach birds how to fly,

there seems no point

to tell rain when to fall

or ask clouds to leave the sky.

As I walk amongst 
my brothers and sisters
I won't tell them how to feel,
but remind myself to question not
the source of love's appeal.

When flowers bloom 

and die too soon

I’ll smile as seasons change,

and let my dreams

say what they will

and not think their message strange.

Ken Owen   

Van Niddy Press   December 2019

Thing I Have Said (Late for Dinner)

“I need to see you.”

“It’s late, you should stay.”

“How do you like your eggs?”

“So, dinner tomorrow?”

               ***

“What, what’d I say?!”

“No no, that’s not what I meant!”

“I’m sorry, really.”

“So…ideas for dinner?”

               ***

“Geez, what crawled up your ass and died?”

“I was just kidding, seriously.”

“I don’t think I’m the one being unreasonable here.”

“oh fuck.”

“FUCK!”

“I’m not hungry.”

               ***

“It’s not you, it’s me.”

“Oh…really.”

“It’s not me, it’s you!”

“Yeah? Well, maybe you won’t miss me, but your family will.”

“By the way, your [mother, father, sister, brother] is crazy.”

“I’m taking the stainless steel frying pan.”

               ***

“Well, what a nice surprise. How long has it been?

"I was sorry to hear about your [mother, father, sister, brother]."

“Ah jeez, that’s messed up.”

“Did you get a second opinion?”

“Doctors, what do they know; they’re all just guessing!”

“Fine, fine; well, I could complain, but we’d be here all night.”

“If there is anything I can do, anything at all...”

“Tell your family I said “Hello”; I always liked them.”

“Well, gotta go; I’m late for dinner.”

Ken Owen 

Van Niddy Press,  December 2019

Snoring in Japanese

As I lie in bed between dreams 

in today’s early morning hours

I could have sworn you were snoring 

in Japanese

I found this to be 

a particularly amazing feat

since I am fairly certain 

you do not speak Japanese

then I realized 

I had no way of knowing 

if it was Japanese or Mandarin 

or Cantonese for that matter

however

your sounds had 

what seemed to me

all the proper inflections of 

an Asian language with its rising and falling

like small gentle waves where 

everything seemed to end 

like a question I could not answer 

since I did not know the language 

Now wide awake and

listening to the indecipherable 

while studying the lunar landscape of

the bedroom ceiling

I got up to have a glass of water

and upon my return I noticed 

your language of sleep had changed

from a personal dialect 

to the sounds of a small purring kitten

and just when I had done 

some preliminary analysis of this new development 

my stomach began to answer you with 

its own language comprised of 

a series of internal sounds generated

most likely

from warm pipes complaining

of cold water

So 

there I was

4:00a.m.

listening to our conversation 

with it’s rhythmic call-and-response 

that neither of us had any control over

and I was disappointed that you were

sleeping through the whole conversation

Anyway

I just thought you 

should know.

Ken Owen   
Van Niddy Press,  November 2019

Go To The Window

Go to the window

Part the curtains

Take a deep breath

Adjust your gaze

To the absence of

Blue Light

And you will experience

Something amazing.


        Life

 is right outside

  your window.



Go to the window
     part the curtains, breathe deeply
behold what matters.


Ken Owen
Van Niddy Press, November 2019

Tell It What to Say

Late at night when sleep won’t come

and my mind insists on chattering, 

I’ve begun to tell it what to say

so why not make it flattering?

On the big black screen behind my eyes

a parade of words goes by,

like Confidence for my ideas

and Courage so my heart will try,

Gratitude for all I’ve received,

Acceptance for what may leave,

Forgiveness for those who lash out in pain,

and Empathy for those who grieve.

All the feelings I may need 

as night turns into day,

I feed my mind so if it must talk

I’ll tell it what to say.

Ken Owen

Van Niddy Press,  November 2019