Tag Archives: poems

The Rose That Fell in Love with The Owl.

Owl Cluster

Autumn always takes on a new flavor of life. Looking for a poem and an image in my vast collection of poems, course essays, watercolor paintings and photos can be overwhelming.

I looked so different through my 30, 40 and 50s. I was round and motherly sometimes with exceptionally long hair. Yet with a family to take care of I guess I did not worry so much about how I looked. I was healthy. A little depressed about my images but kind of happy how I look now which is much different and polished.

I was looking for a poem I wrote in 1989 entitled, The Rose that fell in love with the Owl. I thought about this poem due to my current discovery of two clusters in the constellation of Cassiopeia.


Caroline’s Rose or the White Rose Cluster

Caroline’s Rose or the White Rose Cluster and the Owl Cluster are in the same constellation of Cassiopeia. So, the poem popped into my mind. That is one thing I have learned in my old age. My mind is particularly good at holding on to things and analyzing information. I must admit it is a strange poem after typing it up and not reading it for close to 40 years.


The Rose That Fell in Love with The Owl.

The owl to the rose:
“Come visit me if you can,
Don’t come if you can’t,
For I won’t be waiting for you,
And don’t be waiting for me.
For I don’t need you,
I don’t want you,
But If you do share yourself,
That is fine with me,
Or not,
I’ll be happy either way.
For your happy, sexy, and warm,
Whether you’re with me or without me,
I’m happy, sexy, and warm,
Whether I’m with you or without you.

For we are two individuals,
I’m an owl and you are a rose,
When together or apart!

Any blending while together,
Is an experience from the heart,
For you care for me,
And I care for you,
But don’t want me,
And don’t wait for me,
For you are wanting to hold me,
Is like grasping ambiguously,
In the dark.

Watch my wings glimmer,
As I fly away.
And your needing to be with me,
Is only an illusionary warm spark.”

The rose took a long gulp of air …

The owl:
“I don’t want to desire or have any expectations for you,
So, don’t want or desire or have any expectations for me.
For if you have any of that stuff for me,
I’ll make me as a mirror,
And reflect yourself back at you,
Cracking the hope,
Spearing that bond,
Throwing you back to yourself,
Any gift you wanted to give, my dear.
Don’t want what you can’t have!
I’ll miss holding you,
I’ll miss caressing you,
Even if your thorns stick me.
I’ll give you a few little essences of myself,
But the only thing this will be,
Are the memories.
And when you are on your way home,
You’ll still be happy, sexy, and warm,
I won’t be there,
But I do care,
Don’t think that you need me,
Because you have you,
don’t think that you want me,
because you can’t have me,
because when you thorn’s cry,
aching for the owl you love,
I won’t be there,
Take what is around you,
Another owl or another friend,
Because you can’t have me.”
The owl quickly flew away crying a “Hoot.”

The rose,
Cried herself to sleep

Knowing that the owl’s honesty was
something she had to accept.
And her open bloom so heavy with a peak of scent,
drew back and closed.
A bud back and her way home from the blossomed
dreams reached expanded
and now had contracted, calmed, and withdrawn,
shaking, shaking with
the warp and weft of the living patterns of life.

But while sitting there she heard
a cat talking to a dog behind her.
He barked and cracked a joke…

Rose: “He, He, He” … her belly knotted with humor.


 

The Saints Are Touring Again.

A great dream last night
Those best feelings
of hanging with your favorite band 
Touring as they were 
Family and friends were nearby 
Chris Bailey was sweet 
His lovely sly grin shone my way
as he looked at me
a rich heavy Irish accent 
formed few words
“I’ll see ya tomorrow!” I said.
Adoringly glowing a depth of love
and mutual respect
John and I left the band 
until tomorrow’s show. 
We walked by waving
At Nathan Jones 
We walked by a
large window coffee shop on the Blvd. 
There Ed Kuepper sat alone. 
Having a cup of coffee and a smoke. 
Standing in front of a backstage club,
I looked at the band’s list.
Many names flew by
Under crew - stage 
I saw Holly Cornell. 
John pointed it out 
Feeling a joy 
Only a favorite band 
could give ya 
We will be there 
early tomorrow. 
To help and see the band . 

Punk Poem by Hudley April /2020


Ivy; It will be a good day !


(11-18-18)

Feet steeping around
In light purple tennis shoes
Morning crisper than it was
Cyprus tree tall as a tower
Dark green tall I upward gaze
Looking straight up
Noticing the ivy that embraces the climb
Wild element of the neighborhood
Sadly, gardeners often slash off all the blossoms
most times, yet not here
Half a block overtaken by tall Cyprus
And wild dark shiny green ivy
Light greets angled points and blossoms
Look up and stand still
Wild order
Sound of harmonic honey bees
Everywhere
Enthusiastic peace
The humming bees
As I gaze silently and listen
A dark crow lands on the tip-top
Upon towering Cyprus tree
Gloria told me once
“When the bird rests on the
Tip-top of the Guest house
At the Rosy Fellowship
It will be a good day.”

(11-24-18)

Today I knocked
An old gentleman
Opened his door
I thanked him for his
Climbing ivy
How he lets it blossom.

He told me he planned
To cut it down
Yet the branches were too thick
He will not be
Cutting the ivy down.

How happy we were
I told him how the
Sound of the bees
Is a religious experience
For me.
He said “thank you:
“For your kind words!”

I know the bees, humming birds
And song birds as yellow as the sun
Love the blossoming ivy.

My chapel is mutable
Here the goddess be
Humming and shining
For all who take the time
To hear, feel and see.

dscf4908s

The wild ivy is an ancient plant… let a part of your garden be wild…for her. 

` Hudley 11/18-24-18


Summer [27 Anniversary] Poem #2



Would you could you
travel miles and miles
for delicious deep-fried
artichoke hearts?

I wanna go to Castervile CA
and eat some deep-fried
artichoke hearts
with spicy mayonnaise.

Near the lovely coastal region
close to Moss Landing,
a fucking pint at The Whole Enchilada
with a shot of hot vodka
with my anniversary man.

Take a walk on the beach
Smell the garlic in the air
mixed with the salty smell of tide pools
under the earthy breaths of
golden-green eucalyptus trees.

Lovely multicolored Monarch butterfly 
sweet bites of yellow-white 
lemon margarine pie
Pacific Grove embraces
never-ending waves
breathless roller coaster rides.


A “Daily Fuck Gazette” Limerick

“Uppity dubiety Scott Pruitt purines

Eat your prunes you’re a greedy old man

Lotion on your bottom

Sleeping in a used bed

Will not get you any respect

The day you’re found dead!

Uppity dubiety Scott Pruitt purines

Chicken finger frenzies

lost in your gloom

Uppity dubiety Scott Pruitt purines!”




The Yucca Poem

The Yucca Poem



pon the wall was a painting
Simply framed of a Yucca plant
My parents’ home enfolded it
Hanging on the living room wall 
always smiling at me
The artist’s hands painted 
it upon a wild hill
I looked at it all my life
From babe until the painting
Was stolen away after 
my parents’ death.
It had a constant white bloom.
Curiously I looked 
at the flower many times
I am sure it sung me to sleep.
The Yucca is a wild plant
Growing along
The aromatic California 
coastal ranges
further into the valley and hills
Tall thin and tenuous
boldly spread throughout 
valley canyons.

Yucca calls us to our 
nobility of character
Yucca calls us 
to a wild uniqueness
Singing if you listen quietly
A hum older than we know.

IMG_1461

In Return

Receptive, illumination and synchronicity, I’m a wise old blooming flower, waiting to be pollinated, I’m receptive to what I shall become, Let life approach me, I do not have to go seeking, I have all I need to succeed, I’m a beautiful rose,
wise, good and ready.
I can be trusted, I follow things through, I speak my mind, Let the spirit of god / goddess, move over my deep dark waters.
Receptive as an open flower. Now, waiting for life to impregnate me.
“The Rose makes honey,” the rose gives honey in return.


 

Promethean fennel

The wild fennel is growing in my garden,
From the Santa Monica Mountains,
Only a few seeds thrown around my land,
From the staff-sheath that I have,
Near my hearth.

My wild Promethean fennel,
Smells of licorice and earth,
Feels like numinous beats,
Waves from the coastal region,
Myths revealing through my soul.

Prometheus freed by Chiron,
Fire consumes my heart,
Compassionate green healing,
Of my mind and dreams,
Love will grow tall and strong
My wild Promethean fennel.

Ides Of March

Image found a long time ago..

We ran over the hill

in the rain

green grass suddenly

tripping our climb.

Laughing as we were

rolling over each other

happy to be.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/suddenly/

 

Third Winter Wonderland Poem


An event to read and talk

I got lost

I woke up encrusted with “how could Is?”

Lost I found myself fishing my dream

finishing my dream in waking time

awake with a cup of coffee

kitty on my lap.

The large ten-inch-long lizard

3-inch width creature

still reminds me that

it might still be at my front door.

It’s encrusted skin of scales

as it pushed against the rosemary bush

and the lights in the night sky

after the crescent moon set.

Winter is cold

family wants to sleep

more food and coffee

studies, words and protesting.



https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/encrusted/