Rebecca always hated me
I know, because she said:
And if I passing, spoke to her
I might as well be dead

For all the interest she would show.
But I would always try:
And she might glance up from her book
Or not, as I went by.

But then, one day, she spoke to me
And asked me if I had
A copy of Persuasion
She could borrow for a tad

I said I did, and brought it on
The very next of days;
Rebecca took it with a glance
That turned into a gaze

“You like me, Owen, don’t you?”
I did not know what to say —
“Well, don’t. Because I don’t like you,”
And so I went away

But lo, the years have gone
And I now see what I mistook –
If you’re out there —

Can I have
My fricking book?

A Latinate My Homework

I invited some Latin nouns and verbs over
But they declined
Unless the visit was conjugal

Latin grammar is wonderful
The language is so easy to grasp to the modern mind
And many great classics of literary
Scientific, and philosophical thought
Are open up to one
Who just understands Latin

I sing this threnody for Latin
A dead language
That's still killing students everywhere


Why I Can’t Be Batman

Not all that heroic

The way other people feel about sleeping in
Is how I feel about going to bed early

Not really that much into revenge

I’m short of being a billionaire by roughly a billion dollars

In terms of being a world-class
Inventor-detective-athlete-martial artist,
I’m 0 for 4

I won’t look nearly as good at age 80

I’ve never had any desire to turn
Orphaned children into sidekicks

I’m terrible at strategy:
I not only can’t play chess,
My checkers and even “go fish” games are lacking

I would waste too much time
Figuring out what Wayne Enterprises does.
Licensed merchandising is my guess.

Because the Joker sucks,
And Batman is forever running into him

Because it’s all I can do
To do 20 minutes of yoga in the morning

I drive too slow.
And I wouldn’t want a house that big

Because spending all my time in a cave
Is a way-too-stereotypical male thing to do

What Life’s Supposed to Be

Supposed to Be

If life was what life’s supposed to be,
Then I’d love her and she’d love me,
Instead of only dreaming of her
Every single night

But as it happens, she’s with him,
And prospects are both dim and slim
That she would ever look my way
And in me take delight

And sure, she’s happy and I’m not;
And yes, I’m fat and she is hot –
And yeah, I’m old and she is young,
But still, if things were fairer —

And life was what life’s supposed to be,
She’d be glad she was stuck with me,
Or maybe not. Perhaps, my sense
Of justice is

In error

A Dating Memory

I wanted to seduce her with my wit;
She started laughing at my clumsiness.
I thought, “I’ll let my style do the bit” –
Then knocked over the wine, and made a mess

She came towards me with a yellow towel,
And I no more my laughter could abate:
Then her eyes shone when I laughed at myself
And I had done enough
For a first


(“A Dating Memory” – 7-5-2015)

Classical Poetry, as Updated by My Despicable Friends

(A few of my friends – some of whose adventures I have chronicled previously – found out I kept a poetry blog, and have provided me with some helpful suggestions for poems. A selection of the more repeatable ones are shown below. – Owen)

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said, “You suck.”

I wandered lonely as a cloud
But at least I was high

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more hot and e’en
More likely to drive me to drink

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bin but a hamper.

One must have a mind of winter
To read this poem
And make any sense of it, whatsoever

I saw the best minds of my generation…
Not really.
The best minds of my generation
Wouldn’t have anything to do with me.

Come live with me and be my love,
And we shall all the pleasures prove
Of trailer park, and nature trail,
And Bud Light purchased (when on sale)

O Lonely Sock Upon The Floor

O lonely sock upon the floor,
Seek you the sacred coves
That other socks of mine have sought,
Escaping, then, in droves?

I see you setting out, this hour,
To find those silver gates,
And join the other mismatched soles
Who no longer have mates.

So where, tomorrow, you will be
There’s none can truly say —
For many-a-stocking citizen
Becomes an émigré.

The day you find your freedom, we
Will mark what you achieved,
And never sweat you any more.
So you should feel relieved.

O lonely sock upon the floor,
We two are weaved the same:
We both are hanging by a thread,
And have life’s dryer to blame,

Which spins us and confuses us,
And deals us tears and knocks —
For though it’s just a cycle,
It is jarring, and

It socks

At Syzygy

This poem’s ending happily,
I’ll tell you right up front.
It’s when the moon’s at syzygy
You question if that’s quite a word:
It is. And there’s the brunt

Of what I mostly meant to say
Today, tomorrow, yesterday —
For there are words that you can see
Like apogee, or perigee,
Of doubtless authenticity.
But this is like a stunt:

To use a word without a vowel,
And “y’s” slapped on it with a trowel:
I see it now – you’re doubting me –
That there’s a word like syzygy.
This seems like poem overdose
And not just that the moon is close.

Or better yet, that it’s in line
With earth and sun. All that is fine:
But Owen, really, must you flounce
About with words we can’t pronounce?
But I say we can plainly be
In harmony at syzygy.
And this is how my poem ends.
You see? We still are (mostly) friends…