an owl
with colors
on this
branch with
frequency and
modulus in
bright heights
and a
wingspan in
flight airing
tidal scoop
with nocturne
where in
spring or
fall now
in awe
of love

She has those striking eyes of an Owl .

She observes, Her stare intense yet clam .
She can see through illusion , thrive beyond illusion .
She can see true self of others , their weakness , their strengths .

Do not scared with her stare but ,
Fear her wisdom , spoken by silence !
The more she sees ,the less she sound .

Her defense is her colours
She can blend into the surroundings ,
She's a nemesis
Difficult to spot even if visible .

If you are a threat to her territory
Better watch your back from her talons .
You surely don't want to be her prey

She is intense .
She will mantle you ,
Not to protect but to finish you off ,
Without leaving any trace behind .

Her keen hearing sense , you cannot escape .
She can hear you scuffling from outrun .
She can sense your decoy ,
Even if you're buried in snow .

So tell me how you will veil those eyes which can see through dark .

The Owls are Watching

In memory of Helen Martins
'The Owl House'
Nieu Bethesda, South Africa

In sculpture and rock rested your art
Cement faces that speak volumes
Of emotions and tales untold
As mysterious as your life itself
Glittering walls of crushed glass
That shone by candlelight
Outside of art you were branded
Though remembered as unique and ahead of your time
With big glass eyes the owls watch the world
What was once your sanctuary
Now a showcase to the world
Recognized at last
Unspeakable loneliness of a soul misunderstood
Now your handwritten letters are framed and displayed for all to read
But you don't mind the curiosity of mankind
With cement hands raised to the heavens facing the east
You drank your chosen cup
Your Mecca now complete

Written by Sean Achilleos
28 March 2016©

How this poem came about:

I was a visitor to the Owl House Nieu-Bethesda South Africa in 2015. Approximately, one year later I was inspired to write a poem about the late great Helen Martins. I was intrigued by the eccentricity of this woman.

One evening while in my living room and enjoying a glass of wine, my eye caught the cement owl in my windowsill which I had purchased outside the Owl House from a vendor. I saw its big blue glass eyes glaring at me. At the time I was listening to a Jennifer Ferguson record, and decided to write while the music was playing. Once I had completed the poem I felt exhausted. Then a very strange phenomena occurred, the lights went off for a few seconds and came back on, unlike a power surge. It reoccurred a second time that same evening, and never since. It felt like a supernatural intervention. As far fetched as it may sound, it seemed like Mrs. Martins had personally given her approval of the poem. I then decided to email it to the official Owl House website. I didn't think much would come of it. However, they embraced the poem and were generous enough to display it on their official Website for a number of years under a section titled "A Visitor's Perspective".

https://g.co/kgs/BPyx1U

On the old oak tree
Sits a mother with her child
Giving her some lessons
carried from generations!
Her voice so hoarse and quiet
like the black night sky,
"Listen well dear!"
The mother sighed
"Silence is the wisest thing,
Its with you when no one else is,
silence itself is an answer,
to all those fools, who roam around!
Keep quiet, and you'll see,
the light in miracles!
The less you speak,
the more you observe,
and the more you observe,
the more wisdom you acquire,
the more you get to know, about the faces around here,
sit on this old oak tree, and observe
how faces, hide faces!'

Can you see through, out there in the dark lunar light  
there was a petite owl, the voice of Baritone

with his solo soul and fading smiles,
He sits, sees and sings in a forest choir at night,
The bird of baritone was keen to read the note in silence

And his visible presence of an invisible absence.
Where we heard two sets of harmonic voices
in unison, the secret centre

Seasons changing whilst storms are back in the news,

He closed his left eye and looking for better reviews.
Poorly, we are all, it wouldn't be keen

He pushed his tummy and step to a sharp F key, 

Petite owl takes off from the tree with an encore applause
He closed one green eye and choired under moon light

When can we see the world?
For what it reality is? But please
Don't give in without a fight, and
Don't help those who bury the light.