My Long Best Friend

Anthropomorphic poetry —

My long best friend and nemesis

Whom I have loved for many years –

But who a fickle heart displays

To tease me as she does —


Through long depression, years of hurt,

She’d touch me when I would touch her;

And I would like to think that, still,

It is the way it ever was


The decades go, my long best friend:

The tunes we think will never end

They leave our fingers and our ears

And melt into the wilting years


And loyalty goes unremarked

Until at last, it all goes


Visions Fugitives

Was, and is –

It was 1977 –

I was in an old country chapel
And fifteen years old
There with a “youth group”

Up early, to come and play
The old, battered piano

This is what I was playing
This piece of music
Was (and is), somehow, me —

I sit down now,
39 years later
And play another piece
From the same set of pieces
Called ‘Visions Fugitives’

Because this piece, too
(and was)

Music is not always a uniting force;

But love of music is


Or should be

my closest friend

for years —

music (for years) has been my closest friend,
too intimate, too shy to show or share;
in covert moments / hours without end,
the heart wide open and the soul laid bare

for soloist and single instrument
as though within this very (sort of) room
becomes a touch between the shoulder blades
a shiver of excitement, doom, or gloom

sometimes, in black-and-white, with spare guitar,
and old harmonica across the plain,
the universe expands in lone acoustics
within its sonic, intimate domain

so much we do not dare to ever share
that changes lives
when no one else
is there

Cello and Piano

Note: this might be a bit overdramatic, but it is how I feel. For what that’s worth. – Owen

Cello and Piano

[Note: this might be a bit overdramatic, but it is how I feel. For what that’s worth. – Owen]

I miss the days of music with my daughter;
She’s older now, and put all that away –
I miss the sound of cello and piano;
I missed it back when there was a ‘last day’ —

A last day that we’d ever play together.
She says we will again, but then delays,
As months turn into years, and there’s no music –
There’s only one of two still there who plays.

To work so hard to get so very good,
Then carelessly leave all of that behind;
To leave behind the good in us for nothing,
And let the years spin by until we find

That when we’re ready duets to resume
The other half of them is in
Their tomb