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…

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)

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


So I’ve been called irascible
A charge that I find risible
I seldom carp
Or bellyache
And mostly am invisible

Yet I’ve been called a malcontent
I guess that’s true to some extent
But yet it seems
To me at least
My carping is a nonevent

For when I take to grumbling
It’s hesitant and stumbling
I’d never to seek
To show you up
Or subject you to humbling

But my complaints are few and small
I’m sure you find them passable
So cool your jets
And take a pill
And don’t call me

Photo credit : ID 80714556 Giuseppe Fabiano |

The One Where I Fall On My Face Halfway Through Blogging About A Different Topic

(Originally Posted in 2013. – Owen)

Blogs: because I just wasn’t self-aggrandizing enough.

To be honest – I was a kind of a jerk as a kid, a sort of angry punk as a teen, a hapless, clueless libertine in college and a sickly, morose recluse in my twenties. Since then, I’ve mostly been insensitive and self-absorbed. That much variety has to be a resume enhancement, don’t you think?

Prospective Employer: It says here you have experience as a Wastrel?
Me: Yes, ma’am. I moved from there into Dissipation before doing a stint in Blaming Others.
Prospective Employer: Is there any sort of jerk you haven’t been?
Me: I don’t have much experience with Vituperation; if you have openings in Bitter Recriminations, I think I could learn very quickly.

I was walking down stairs this morning in the dark, and missed the last step. I fell on my knees and my face onto a hardwood floor. When I sat up I could see blood on my shirt and pants and more drops falling. So I did what any other 51-year-old man in my situation would do, I yelled for my wife.

Me: Honey!!!
Her: What is it?
Me: I kind of fell and I’m bleeding. Could you bring a cloth or something? I’m afraid to move without knowing how bad it is.
Her: (After a moment, turning on the light and coming downstairs.) What did you do?
Me: I missed the last step.
Her: Why didn’t you turn the light on?
Me: I don’t normally.
Her: I thought you did.
Me: I can see now that would have been wiser.

FACTOID: Putz and clutz rhyme, but aren’t used together that often by poets.

The dog seemed interested in the blood on my sleeping clothes, but declined to offer any assistance other than giving me a sort of canine “you’ll live” look.

I started a blog to make a difference.
I wanted to change the world.
I wanted people to see the real me.
But the me I show people is better than the real me.
Kind of like the great retorts you think of *after* that encounter with a jerk.
I’m probably the jerk a lot of people encounter.

I don’t know if realizing that will actually change the world, however.

If I wanted to be argumentative, I would say that depends on the definitions of “actually”, “change” and “world”.

I don’t want to be argumentative, I want the truth, which Jack Nicholson would no doubt tell me I can’t handle. He would be right, but then again, he’s Jack Nicholson.

Perhaps I fell down stairs as punishment for what I was like when I was younger, or for what I’m like now, or because my blog isn’t bravely revealing enough.

Perhaps you’re fishing for compliments, and you don’t have a license to fish here.

On an unrelated note, I think I’ve invented a sixth “love language”. It’s kind of a cross between Quenya and tlhIngan Hol.

You can do obscure jokes but you can’t obscure the truth.

The truth?

I should have turned on the light.

A Country Autumn – 6

Pumpkins: we place them with Halloween
By season and tradition,
But I could not help but wondering,
And had a faint suspicion
That something more sinister may be there,
Though their patches might look sleepy —
In autumn, do pumpkins use human spice?
‘Cause that would just

Be creepy