Around the bed
where I lie
and try to sleep
stand generations
of grandmothers,
soft gray owls speaking to me
in all my native tongues at once,
and I understand none of it.
My shame at being unable
to take what they offer
grows a snow storm,
a white-out inside me.
How dangerous my dreams are —
so dangerous I strive to convince myself
that they are nothing, that the fantastic
does not exist,
that the grandmother owls
crowding close,
hooting softly,
calling out to me,
are wind in the trees
and no more.
Dark Matter 
May 16th, 2015 at 6:06 am
Absolutely love the image of the grandmothers as owls. My grandmothers both spoke different languages, one Welsh and the other Swedish.
You will never convince yourself that the fantastic does not exist as you are alive with it and it is in your words! Brilliant!
May 16th, 2015 at 10:32 am
Thanks.
May 9th, 2015 at 3:24 pm
Hearing the Owl call your name……..scary.
Symbols of Wisdom, of Darkness, a Warning Call, Death.
The Owl’s Warning
a pet, a youngest son
delightful
always spontaneous
living
in the present moment
without
sense of consequence
having
no consideration
finally
all his possessions
in the rain
one time too many
defying
a father’s rules
living now
in his graduation car
whereabouts
unknown for weeks
pure anguish
for his weary mother
her last hope
just to keep him alive
until life
taught him the hard way.
fearful nights
when the clear call of an owl
always meant
he was in some new trouble.