Deja Vu

Deja Vu
Valerie Owens

now
wind
tossed
corn husk
curls
wild
tamed
arced
blond
brows
freckles
splashed across
nose
square jaw
hazel
hazy
eyes
laughing
mouth
face
reminded of
bygone days,
porch swing,
crickets sing,
lazy
low
light
conversation
casual
and summer eves

that

never

seemed to

last long enough
gone

Recently Observed

Recently Observed
Valerie Owens

Yesterday,
while loading groceries into the truck of my car,
I observe
a slim businessman
in a sharp three piece suit
placidly strolling through the automatic doors
and out into the bright sunshine,
a full cart of groceries before him.
His pace quickens, slightly
He glances casually about him,
right, then left.
Feeling the coast is clear,
he breaks out into a beautiful sprint,
polished shoes slapping wildly against the pavement.
He jumps on the cart,
just like your mother told you not to,
and he flies down the parking lot,
silly grin splashed across his face,
like a child getting away with something naughty.
The wind blows at the corners of his suit jacket.
He looks purely delighted.
This, this is what it means
to be Alive.
All too soon,
the childlike flight ends.
Having arrived at his BMW,
he jumps off,
suddenly dignified,
loads his groceries,
puts the cart away,
and drives off,
leaving me with a smile on my face,
and curious about
the businessman
that I recently observed.

Photo: www.juniperimages.com

Any quirky acts of the seemingly dignified that have brought a smile to your face?

Ode to an Angel Mother

I'm sure you are familiar with Abraham Lincoln's quote, "All that I am or ever hope to be, I owe to my angel Mother. This is a small ode to my angel mother.

My Angel Mother
Valerie Owens

She comes home;
shoes stained red with dust
from an idle hike
through desert twilight
and into the night.
Hair, windblown and eyes, bright.
Mother is waiting up
Innocent mistake though it be,
the clock is pushing two
and curfew is long since past.
A penitent daughter awaits a sharp rebuke
from motherly lips.
Yet, Mother, quiet and understanding,
asks instead
if she had a good time
and how was the hike.
Casual chatter
and
no mention of late hours.
With a tender kiss upon the cheek,
mother, daughter say good-night.
A small surge of love
rises softly in the daughter's young heart.

She thinks now
of patient hours Mother played Nurse
in the days after surgery.
And
of clean piles of laundry at the edge of an unmade bed
and seven reminders
to put those clothes away!
She considers the unexpected acts,

like
the scent of pie dough
baked into cinnamon sugar rolls,
a loving reminder
that Mom remembered

what her daughter loves best.

An impromptu hot dog dinner

for a dozen teenage friends,

a quilt to warm a dorm room,

and a kiss every night,

these are the beautiful things of the world

to a young daughter.
She can almost hear
the lullabies of childhood,
and songs spilling forth from the piano,
and singing in the kitchen,
Mother's music,
the soundtrack of home.

Eyes, heavy with weariness,
close softly
and sleep comes
deep
and satisfying.

It is good to be loved.

What is it about mothers that makes them so wonderful?

Irrational Fears

Would You Know If You Were Crazy?
Valerie Owens

Late afternoon sunshine spills in
through familiar windows.
I am alone in the house.
Disquieted by footsteps from the upstairs,
I check
And
I check again
And then, once more.
I am still alone in the house.
I reason with myself
old houses have creaks
and groans of their own.
Calm down.
You are going crazy,
I tell myself.
Eighteen
and still afraid
of things that go bump in the night
or
in this case
late afternoon
And
I'm talking to myself.

graduation

Graduation
Valerie Owens

eating rice crispies
an hour after graduating from high school
shouldn't i be
melancholy, excited, relieved, anxious...
or
something...
yes?
but i am thinking about
sunburnt shoulders,
a bad hair day,
and how none of this
seems real
strange.
i'm graduated.

i am no more

i am no more
Valerie Owens

cinnamon kiss
slow... possessing ... tender
buzzed hair, whispery at my fingertips
the hands of a man, comfortable at my waist
unheard music, alive, pulsing through my veins
fading sunlight, warm on my neck
scent of dusk, keen to my senses
slowly... slipping

i am
no longer human
i am
a compilation of cells
falling away into molecules
splintering into atoms
i am
everything
and Nothing
acutely aware
and entirely oblivious

strange Kiss
slow... bewitching... tender
dissolving my existence
cell by cell...

i am
no more

Radio

Radio
Valerie Owens

Fighting for the control of the radio,
he grabs my wrist,
flirtatiously
I attempt to pull away
and fail
I tease him for trying to take
my hand
And then,
for a moment,
he really does take my hand
a joke
(I think)
I pull away (or was it him?)
I shouldn't have
let go
I don't remember what was playing on the radio

Solo Gone Maverick

Solo Gone Maverick

Valerie Owens

When I was eleven,
summertime, I started cross-stitch-by-number
I spent most of July
unpicking
so things would turn out like they're supposed to
Now, eighteen
I am trying life-by-number
There is no July to spend
unpicking
and nothing is turning out like it's supposed to
So I think I'm gonna...

Scrap conformity
Throw out the rule book
Go a little crazy

be a little bit...

Maverick.

Solo

Solo
Valerie Owens

When I was eleven,
summertime, I started cross-stitch-by-number
I spent most of July
unpicking
so things would turn out like they're supposed to
Now, eighteen
I am trying life-by-number
There is no July to spend
unpicking
and nothing is turning out like it's supposed to

Scrap conformity

I'm
Going
Solo

Beautiful

Given

Given
Valerie Owens

My heart is not to be won
and your attempts to do so are stifling
The prize goes to
the boy who never tried;
the boy who never wanted it,
not like you did.
The unfairness strikes me as cruel
which is why
I haven't told you
yet.
I tried,
but the words felt thick and unkind,
so unlike the me you claim to love.

Broken Words

A painful rough draft. A poem about what else, but poetry!

The Poetess
Valerie Owens

A hand sweeps across the page.
Ink, the blood of the soul, spurts across the pallid paper.
Words emerge,
awkward, jumbled,
and imperfect, rather the poetess herself.
Jagged sentences follow,
roughly arranged in fragmented lines.
Poetry rises, blatant and unsure,
from the silent cacophony.
Red ink flies,
slicing and dicing deformities.
Another attempt, and then another.

Poetry draws violently on the marrow of being.
Beauty is never guaranteed,
self satisfaction is a delusion,
perfection is a joke,
and no one listens anyhow.
But such is the burden and the blessing
of the poetess.
Like Divinity's beckon to Samuel,
the call comes again and again,
soft and familiar in the hollows of night.
The deluge of words cannot be dammed
and the poem must be.
Such is the poetess's charge.

I Am Weary of The Music

I Am Weary of the Music

Valerie Owens

Your fingers pluck at the strings of my heart

Like the musician and his mandolin

Perhaps my heart is out of tune,

For the song you play

Sounds no longer sweetly of blissful adoration

But rather, strange, and off-key,

Like the cacophony of deceit.

The mandolin is played with violent passion

And the cords are pulled ever tighter.

Please untangle your cold hands

from the weakening threads

of my now bleeding heart

I am weary of the music.

Jimi Hendrix

You and I share the close proximity of my car

Jimi Hendrix falls softly from the speakers

The background to our conversation

It is trivial chatter

We talk

about nothing in particular

about anything at all

The banter of youth

My car has been parked

here

in your driveway

an hour now.

Innocently, of course

It’s Friday night

And I laugh at what the neighbors must think

of the parked car

But you don’t flirt like that

So I don’t share the joke

Jimi sings

“I just want to talk to you…”

I smile, and soak my heart in the soft rises and falls of

your voice

I just want to talk to you

The Answer

I have wondered of the taste of your lips

for sometime

And now,

now that the question is satisfied

I find that curiosity has a far sweeter taste than truth

Claire 2

Claire fumbles frantically for a cigarette,
Could it really be only this morning she flinched
this box?
How can it be so empty now?
Two more left.
She fingers the precious cigarette tenderly
And hastily,
she lights up,
hands trembling to do so
Eagerly, she awaits her addiction's claim.
The cruel ember soothes her
The light of the cigarette
is more than she can draw from her drained soul.
She leans against a concrete wall, filthy with graffiti.
Hunger screams loudly
and the cold sucks the life from her weak limbs
Reality claws at the back of her mind
Sometime, but not now,
she will have to feed her thin body
But first, more cigarettes
for there is only one left now
and addiction's hold is violent and unconquerable
And
she must find somewhere to rest where the cold isn't so deep
Tomorrow lurks in the dim shadows
She sighs
The days have become years
and tomorrow seems impossible to handle
But, reality can wait
For now the shaking cigarette is enough.
The ember fades slowly into the night,
and she lets the ashy remains fall at her feet
Claire reaches hastily for the last cigarette
Youth is dark eyed and never ending.

Confessions of an Occasional Insomniac

Night beckons me to linger

in her lovely solitude.

She lures me with her ebony eyes

and soundless movements.

Alone, and blessedly un-obliged,

I revel in her midnight beauty.

Morning comes too quickly,

mocking my foolish weakness

and weary eyes.

Sensibility demands I rest my aching body.

I vow I will. Soon.

But…

When night falls,

I know I shall succumb again to her eternal charm

I shall sacrifice

a thousand years of sleep

and the rich tangle of dreams such sleep owns

If thou,

Oh sweet Night,

Will just but let me linger

a little longer,

just ever so much longer

In the blackness of your splendor