Poetry and Lyrics
A random collection of unpublished poems, and song lyrics as noted
Diaspora
I saw a family at the Seven-Eleven,
Crammed in a U-Haul van
A worried mother trying to calm her
Children, support her Old Man
Her strength betrayed by
A painful stare and shaking hands
The children were bright-eyed
With anticipation,
Their father distracted
By fear and dislocation
His eyes showed concern
Over his new destination
New grapes destined
For post-modern wrath
Flowing with the current
Down empty global paths
Spending the last of meager savings
On Pepsi and gas
In search of that remaining mill job,
A chance to survive,
To be self-reliant like his father,
To keep his family alive
They pulled away from the curb,
Took a left and disappeared
Cold Front
Doughnuts,
And Coffee.
Sunshine and
The wind.
Early morning
Paper.
And you.
Your bright
Smile
Connected to tight
Shoulders
Trying to
Shrug off
The chill.
Iron Ore and Dust, Formed and Scattered, and More.
There on the shelf in my workshop it sits.
Defiant, independent, determined to be around
Long after we’re all forgotten.
It’s a fortress, a treasure chest, Paw Paw’s old
Toolbox. It has been with me up and down the
Right coast.
It has been used. It has been relegated to
Dark corners in lonely storage. And through
It all it shuns dust and gathers
No rust. It always reminds me of a man
Like no other. A poor mechanic, a blue collar
Hero, one who could fix
Anything, even if it was the damnedest thing
He had ever seen. A hard worker, hard partier,
A Democrat to the end.
I stood proud, receiving it as gift even though
It hurt me to know he would not have the chance
To use it again.
For a practical man who’s time is coming
To an end, tools are things of nostalgia,
Better means as a gift.
I was beginning my career as he was ending
His. I, broke, unable to afford tools because
Of being young.
He, broke, unable to justify tools because of
Being old. So he passed the torch on,
Handing it down.
He made it himself, from heavy stock, down
In the belly of the Admiral Semmes Hotel.
And from that
Immaculate birthing it went, back and forth
In the trunks of his cars: Belvedere, Studebaker,
Monte Carlo, DeVille.
It’s so heavy, it’s impractical. It is Harry Truman,
Sitting there on my old work bench,
Bottom lip sticking out,
Beady eyes glaring from behind round glasses in defiance
Of judgment. Loaded with rusted files and wire brushes,
Dried solder and nails.
Confident and proud, aware of who he is:
A Baptist, a pipe-fitter, baseball fan, stubborn Southerner.
And I, stubborn
In my own way, lugged it to jobs, long after I could
Afford better. And now it’s a Treasure, the closest thing
To family china a country boy
Could hope to have. There was never a gift more
Appropriately given, or received in my life. It is a testament
To the character that passes unseen
Skipping a generation to a welcome home, a familiar spot
In an inquisitive mind, under scarred hands, beside saws and
Hammers, and pipes and pain.
The Vision of the Son
Snakes chase me.
Up out of the swampland
They come, intent on dragging
Me back down with them.
God, how I want it behind
Me, but they try all
The harder. They would
Wrap around me and drag me
Down and I could
Commiserate with them, and
Sweat in the thick stench
And complain about the
Troubles we brought on ourselves
And make the Devil out of
All those smart enough to
Escape. Their drums beat,
Folly dances and dodges Death,
But Death tries all the same.
And so it is with the snakes. The
Higher I climb, the more they
Bite at my ankles, and make
The Devil of me. It is the proverbial
Thorn in the side of Biblical proportions.
The tallest tree in the land reaches for,
But never achieves heaven. He can
Never totally escape
The soil of his seed.
His own personal snakes entangle
His roots and hold him to the
Earth that is theirs, while he
Endeavors for the kingdom he
Knows is his.
All Poems Copyright Rodney J Owen
Music.
Below are lyrics to songs written and co-written, as noted.
Adventures in a Dark Box, Part One
(From the song by the same title,
co-written with James Marshall Owen.
Lyrics by Rodney J Owen; Music by
James Marshall Owen; found on
Project Tritium, Live at the DotmatrixProject, 2008)
Adventures in a Dark Box, Part One
The pelican flies on the leeward side
of the wave, parallel, in search of food.
His concentration is intense. He flirts
with the curl of the wave but never gets hit.
Should he spy a victim he strikes, the meal
swallowed before the poor fool knows what
happened, before the wave reaches out.
So it is with the hunter and the hunted.
Life and death are swift and over before
fully realized. It is easy, indeed cheap,
to honor the hunter, but what of the virtuous
hunted? What about he who spends his life
running from the other?
There is honor for the hunted. Even game
deserves a glory other than transfiguration
into trophies or meals. To be the target,
the victim, is worthy of some greater
recognition. I know. I am the hunted.
Fear is my companion, solitude my reward.
Although I run, I welcome death or escape.
I don’t differentiate.
The pelican is low over me now, his
Concentration complete, the taste of
blood fresh on his tongue. He stays
just ahead of the wave but I elude him,
dodging into side streets, down alleys,
in and out of the subway.
He will dedicate his life, his career,
to my capture. But that is of no
consequence to me. I only am
what I am: a runner, the hunted.
I will return to the depths, back to
my homeland and far from his intensive gaze.
And he will sit, like a fool on a lamp post,
in the dungeon he calls his office,
smoking cigarettes and drinking chicory,
thinking of me, hating me, wanting my life.
I swim beneath a fleet of trawlers in
Kansas City, but they don’t know me.
They have bigger and better sandwiches
on their minds and menus, but I’m shaken
just the same. I should stay here
in this anonymous lair, but I go on
nervous and frightened. Meanwhile,
the hunter flies low, scanning just
below the surface with his impeccable eyes.
In a bar outside Dallas I feel his presence.
He is in the room, I know. I duck
into the back room and blend in with
the crows on the fence, knowing he
will keep his distance from them.
I hate to use another’s prejudice in
my defense, but politics
is often that way.
The game is busted up and I am pushed
through the back door.
He sees me from across the room.
I should run but instead I stay for the fight.
Ironically, he disappears from sight
and I meet a mysterious dark haired woman.
Despite the adrenaline,
I take my time and chances with this woman.
She is all I ever dreamed of and things I could
never imagine. She listens to my stories with a
look in her eye that both frightens and excites me.
She chain-smokes menthol cigarettes and holds my hand.
I have never met a woman such as this, yet she is
all too familiar. We leave and swim over to
Al’s All Night Diner for corn and coffee.
Al keeps a clean diner because Barracudas
are banned. We are welcomed, however he keeps a
close eye on me. By now I’m nervous again because I
haven’t seen the pelican for a while. A cat fight
breaks out behind Al’s and we decide to leave before
the madness spreads and we become infected.
On the way home we see two wrecks and get
a speeding ticket. We hitch the rest of the way
with some old-timer on his way home from a long
voyage at sea. He talks incessantly, and I get
nervous and ask to be put out at the next light,
which turns out to not be a light at all but the moon,
which I’m beginning to believe is the culprit for
all this excitement and cautious bedlam. Meanwhile,
the mysterious dark haired woman has become quiet and
contemplative. Even her smile has changed, reminding
me more of a stone or some other cold, inanimate object.
We get out and proceed to swim upstream.
After a while I can’t take it any more. The struggle
is too much for me. I drop out.
I move to the Village and write poetry and play guitar.
The woman lays curled at my feet purring and
reading Chaucer. Eventually, even this begins to
wear on me so I go suburban, vote Republican,
get a gun. Knowing this would please my grandmother,
I write her a song. The mysterious woman is restless
and asks me to follow her, to where I don’t know.
Later that night, when we finally arrive and I think my
luck will change, I discover she’s not a woman at all,
but a pelican in disguise, and not just any pelican
but old Lucifer himself. He swoops down before the curve
of the wave, hungry for the kill, whispering in my ear,
“Check-Mate”.
Copyright 2008, Rodney J Owen
Ice
lyrics by Rodney J Owen
In appreciation of abstraction, I
Bow to the sun that has
Yet to rise
The darkness of this time of
The day is overwhelming
Ice hanging from tree limbs
Gives the yard a haunting ethos
No cars on the road, no
Planes in the sky
No lights
Electric wires are down, the
Moon’s light is piercing
I feel the horror that
Inspired Shelley’s monster
Fear
I realize I’m not breathing
My head reels
The cold crawls out from under
Downed trees, from the
Depths of ditches
Biting my tendons, slicing bone
I realize I don’t have my keys
I’m locked out of my house
Lost in the frozen tundra
Of my own yard
A limb collapses somewhere
Echoing the empty air
Shelly’s monster, no doubt
Do I wake the others?
Break a glass? In the process,
Becoming the monster myself
Maybe that’s the key. Maybe
The monsters in our yards are
Projections of our fears, or
Our desires
Maybe forgetting my keys was
No accident after all. Maybe I’m
Not really here, but
Off somewhere knocking Icy
Limbs out of trees
Frightening mindless suburbanites
In manicured 1/8 acre forests
Copyright 2006, Rodney J Owen
Affectus Incognitus
(Lyrics by Rodney J Owen
Music by Rodney J Owen and James Marshall Owen
Found on: Project Tritium, Live at the DotmatrixProject, 2008)
Affectus Incognitus
Feeling I don't deserve life
It's not my fault I'm torn up inside
Me and Little Brother we're gonna leave this town
Cause Mom and Dad, they don't want us around
And they don't know, where I go
They don't know where I go to hide
And they don't know, how I feel
They don't know how I feel inside
Drinking and fighting, happens most every night
And closing my eyes don't help me to hide
Little Brother don't have mush to say
But I know he'll talk, once I get him away
And if there's a God up in the sky
I know He'll come into my life
And take my hand, stand by my side
Because I know it's better on the other side
Now, Little Brother, he done left this life
And in my dreams Mom and Dad still fight
And Little Brother's there holding my hand
Crying and begging them to stop again
And one of these days I'll take him away
I'll take him away to a better life
And Mom and Dad together again
Happily ever after, the end.
Copyright 2008 Rodney J Owen
I saw a family at the Seven-Eleven,
Crammed in a U-Haul van
A worried mother trying to calm her
Children, support her Old Man
Her strength betrayed by
A painful stare and shaking hands
The children were bright-eyed
With anticipation,
Their father distracted
By fear and dislocation
His eyes showed concern
Over his new destination
New grapes destined
For post-modern wrath
Flowing with the current
Down empty global paths
Spending the last of meager savings
On Pepsi and gas
In search of that remaining mill job,
A chance to survive,
To be self-reliant like his father,
To keep his family alive
They pulled away from the curb,
Took a left and disappeared
Cold Front
Doughnuts,
And Coffee.
Sunshine and
The wind.
Early morning
Paper.
And you.
Your bright
Smile
Connected to tight
Shoulders
Trying to
Shrug off
The chill.
Iron Ore and Dust, Formed and Scattered, and More.
There on the shelf in my workshop it sits.
Defiant, independent, determined to be around
Long after we’re all forgotten.
It’s a fortress, a treasure chest, Paw Paw’s old
Toolbox. It has been with me up and down the
Right coast.
It has been used. It has been relegated to
Dark corners in lonely storage. And through
It all it shuns dust and gathers
No rust. It always reminds me of a man
Like no other. A poor mechanic, a blue collar
Hero, one who could fix
Anything, even if it was the damnedest thing
He had ever seen. A hard worker, hard partier,
A Democrat to the end.
I stood proud, receiving it as gift even though
It hurt me to know he would not have the chance
To use it again.
For a practical man who’s time is coming
To an end, tools are things of nostalgia,
Better means as a gift.
I was beginning my career as he was ending
His. I, broke, unable to afford tools because
Of being young.
He, broke, unable to justify tools because of
Being old. So he passed the torch on,
Handing it down.
He made it himself, from heavy stock, down
In the belly of the Admiral Semmes Hotel.
And from that
Immaculate birthing it went, back and forth
In the trunks of his cars: Belvedere, Studebaker,
Monte Carlo, DeVille.
It’s so heavy, it’s impractical. It is Harry Truman,
Sitting there on my old work bench,
Bottom lip sticking out,
Beady eyes glaring from behind round glasses in defiance
Of judgment. Loaded with rusted files and wire brushes,
Dried solder and nails.
Confident and proud, aware of who he is:
A Baptist, a pipe-fitter, baseball fan, stubborn Southerner.
And I, stubborn
In my own way, lugged it to jobs, long after I could
Afford better. And now it’s a Treasure, the closest thing
To family china a country boy
Could hope to have. There was never a gift more
Appropriately given, or received in my life. It is a testament
To the character that passes unseen
Skipping a generation to a welcome home, a familiar spot
In an inquisitive mind, under scarred hands, beside saws and
Hammers, and pipes and pain.
The Vision of the Son
Snakes chase me.
Up out of the swampland
They come, intent on dragging
Me back down with them.
God, how I want it behind
Me, but they try all
The harder. They would
Wrap around me and drag me
Down and I could
Commiserate with them, and
Sweat in the thick stench
And complain about the
Troubles we brought on ourselves
And make the Devil out of
All those smart enough to
Escape. Their drums beat,
Folly dances and dodges Death,
But Death tries all the same.
And so it is with the snakes. The
Higher I climb, the more they
Bite at my ankles, and make
The Devil of me. It is the proverbial
Thorn in the side of Biblical proportions.
The tallest tree in the land reaches for,
But never achieves heaven. He can
Never totally escape
The soil of his seed.
His own personal snakes entangle
His roots and hold him to the
Earth that is theirs, while he
Endeavors for the kingdom he
Knows is his.
All Poems Copyright Rodney J Owen
Music.
Below are lyrics to songs written and co-written, as noted.
Adventures in a Dark Box, Part One
(From the song by the same title,
co-written with James Marshall Owen.
Lyrics by Rodney J Owen; Music by
James Marshall Owen; found on
Project Tritium, Live at the DotmatrixProject, 2008)
Adventures in a Dark Box, Part One
The pelican flies on the leeward side
of the wave, parallel, in search of food.
His concentration is intense. He flirts
with the curl of the wave but never gets hit.
Should he spy a victim he strikes, the meal
swallowed before the poor fool knows what
happened, before the wave reaches out.
So it is with the hunter and the hunted.
Life and death are swift and over before
fully realized. It is easy, indeed cheap,
to honor the hunter, but what of the virtuous
hunted? What about he who spends his life
running from the other?
There is honor for the hunted. Even game
deserves a glory other than transfiguration
into trophies or meals. To be the target,
the victim, is worthy of some greater
recognition. I know. I am the hunted.
Fear is my companion, solitude my reward.
Although I run, I welcome death or escape.
I don’t differentiate.
The pelican is low over me now, his
Concentration complete, the taste of
blood fresh on his tongue. He stays
just ahead of the wave but I elude him,
dodging into side streets, down alleys,
in and out of the subway.
He will dedicate his life, his career,
to my capture. But that is of no
consequence to me. I only am
what I am: a runner, the hunted.
I will return to the depths, back to
my homeland and far from his intensive gaze.
And he will sit, like a fool on a lamp post,
in the dungeon he calls his office,
smoking cigarettes and drinking chicory,
thinking of me, hating me, wanting my life.
I swim beneath a fleet of trawlers in
Kansas City, but they don’t know me.
They have bigger and better sandwiches
on their minds and menus, but I’m shaken
just the same. I should stay here
in this anonymous lair, but I go on
nervous and frightened. Meanwhile,
the hunter flies low, scanning just
below the surface with his impeccable eyes.
In a bar outside Dallas I feel his presence.
He is in the room, I know. I duck
into the back room and blend in with
the crows on the fence, knowing he
will keep his distance from them.
I hate to use another’s prejudice in
my defense, but politics
is often that way.
The game is busted up and I am pushed
through the back door.
He sees me from across the room.
I should run but instead I stay for the fight.
Ironically, he disappears from sight
and I meet a mysterious dark haired woman.
Despite the adrenaline,
I take my time and chances with this woman.
She is all I ever dreamed of and things I could
never imagine. She listens to my stories with a
look in her eye that both frightens and excites me.
She chain-smokes menthol cigarettes and holds my hand.
I have never met a woman such as this, yet she is
all too familiar. We leave and swim over to
Al’s All Night Diner for corn and coffee.
Al keeps a clean diner because Barracudas
are banned. We are welcomed, however he keeps a
close eye on me. By now I’m nervous again because I
haven’t seen the pelican for a while. A cat fight
breaks out behind Al’s and we decide to leave before
the madness spreads and we become infected.
On the way home we see two wrecks and get
a speeding ticket. We hitch the rest of the way
with some old-timer on his way home from a long
voyage at sea. He talks incessantly, and I get
nervous and ask to be put out at the next light,
which turns out to not be a light at all but the moon,
which I’m beginning to believe is the culprit for
all this excitement and cautious bedlam. Meanwhile,
the mysterious dark haired woman has become quiet and
contemplative. Even her smile has changed, reminding
me more of a stone or some other cold, inanimate object.
We get out and proceed to swim upstream.
After a while I can’t take it any more. The struggle
is too much for me. I drop out.
I move to the Village and write poetry and play guitar.
The woman lays curled at my feet purring and
reading Chaucer. Eventually, even this begins to
wear on me so I go suburban, vote Republican,
get a gun. Knowing this would please my grandmother,
I write her a song. The mysterious woman is restless
and asks me to follow her, to where I don’t know.
Later that night, when we finally arrive and I think my
luck will change, I discover she’s not a woman at all,
but a pelican in disguise, and not just any pelican
but old Lucifer himself. He swoops down before the curve
of the wave, hungry for the kill, whispering in my ear,
“Check-Mate”.
Copyright 2008, Rodney J Owen
Ice
lyrics by Rodney J Owen
In appreciation of abstraction, I
Bow to the sun that has
Yet to rise
The darkness of this time of
The day is overwhelming
Ice hanging from tree limbs
Gives the yard a haunting ethos
No cars on the road, no
Planes in the sky
No lights
Electric wires are down, the
Moon’s light is piercing
I feel the horror that
Inspired Shelley’s monster
Fear
I realize I’m not breathing
My head reels
The cold crawls out from under
Downed trees, from the
Depths of ditches
Biting my tendons, slicing bone
I realize I don’t have my keys
I’m locked out of my house
Lost in the frozen tundra
Of my own yard
A limb collapses somewhere
Echoing the empty air
Shelly’s monster, no doubt
Do I wake the others?
Break a glass? In the process,
Becoming the monster myself
Maybe that’s the key. Maybe
The monsters in our yards are
Projections of our fears, or
Our desires
Maybe forgetting my keys was
No accident after all. Maybe I’m
Not really here, but
Off somewhere knocking Icy
Limbs out of trees
Frightening mindless suburbanites
In manicured 1/8 acre forests
Copyright 2006, Rodney J Owen
Affectus Incognitus
(Lyrics by Rodney J Owen
Music by Rodney J Owen and James Marshall Owen
Found on: Project Tritium, Live at the DotmatrixProject, 2008)
Affectus Incognitus
Feeling I don't deserve life
It's not my fault I'm torn up inside
Me and Little Brother we're gonna leave this town
Cause Mom and Dad, they don't want us around
And they don't know, where I go
They don't know where I go to hide
And they don't know, how I feel
They don't know how I feel inside
Drinking and fighting, happens most every night
And closing my eyes don't help me to hide
Little Brother don't have mush to say
But I know he'll talk, once I get him away
And if there's a God up in the sky
I know He'll come into my life
And take my hand, stand by my side
Because I know it's better on the other side
Now, Little Brother, he done left this life
And in my dreams Mom and Dad still fight
And Little Brother's there holding my hand
Crying and begging them to stop again
And one of these days I'll take him away
I'll take him away to a better life
And Mom and Dad together again
Happily ever after, the end.
Copyright 2008 Rodney J Owen
