No one sees the useless old thing,
Perhaps a trophy from an old hunting trip,
Or a once prized possession of a collector.
Anything you can think of may fit,
But we all know what it was:
A plain old barn owl collecting dust
Upon the shelf of some antique store.
Killed and stuffed as decoration,
Passed around by its previous owners,
Re-gifted endlessly due to its unsettling gaze.
No one cared as its body ceased moving,
And its wonderful feathers became drenched
In its blood and the dew upon the grass.
Forever the bird will be posed upon its stand.
A whisper of its former freedom and glory.
No one will see how it should've been,
Only what it is now:
In the corner of the antique store collecting dust.

The world and all its many fingered thumbs
has me by the throat
tugging hard at the wire
gripping tight it cuts, sharp at the prospect of another hour
until I do not know if flesh is bone,
bone is flesh,
or some thing in-between,
all is pain, and pain is all
lightning in a head that is filled to the lips with rags and straw
raw alight and burning bright, although I wish it were not so
I want it dim to let me sleep,
let me hide in dull-thought darkness
calm beneath the leafy shedding midnight trees
with their echoed mindless hum
and owls, there are always owls
screeching brutes of talon tinted wings
that eat the other flying things that haunt my night
and I can only lay
and wait for morning light

Where you might see—an owl
I see a lovely creature
With eyes the size of silver dollars
The most striking of their features
And how they survey and own the night
Always watching, never losing sight
Mirroring the moon's reflection, with their eyes.

there is an owl
out there
   somewhere
in the darkness
kept secret
by whispering trees
shrouded
in shadow
by leaf
and cloud
it seems
to have a question
for any
who will listen
politely
but persistently
it inquires
pausing briefly
awaiting
an answer
before asking
again
and again;
whether intended
or not
this interrogation
has infuriated
the old boy
and seemingly
every other canine
in the vicinity

Have you considered the owl?
Excluded from days
like a diabetic warned off fudge

Is the carob of night enough?
Sure, it’s dark, possibly smooth
and those tasty rodents move there

But look at the day
with a head that can turn right round
you’d see every rotten thing

Every bad stroke and selfishness,
every creaky knee and thumb
in clarity, loud

Oh to be the owl

owls in willow trees
saddest of images to me


owls in willow trees
softened broken limbs in me


owls in willow trees
let mossy scars all over me


owls in willow trees
night windows time in me


owls in willow trees
now have nothing to do with me


owls in willow trees
where I have been arrives in me


owls in willow trees
more than many of each of me


owls in willow trees
past beyond memory me


owls in willow trees
now there is enough of me

My eyes flick over the textured ceiling,
connecting dots and making patterns
like some kind of giant Rorschach test.

I surrender to cliché and tell myself that
if I can just get through the night
that tomorrow will be different,
that everything will be fine in the morning,
but the dawn rarely brings salvation.

I close my eyes instead and listen
to the sounds of owls awakening,
asking questions that have no answers.

i used to throw bread crumbs into
a pond full of minnows next to a
place where i worked years ago

it kept me cool in the summertime,
pulling the heat out of me and
feeding it into the winds as

a turtle snapped up dozens of fish-babies,
transforming the vision of my frame into
maybe the size of a praeternatural feather

and for a moment,

i dreamt that on a clear night through the
eyes of a barnyard owl that i could
navigate the dark foldings of
space into the beating
hearts of praying
rodents—

blinking back to a view of
disturbed green waters—

i commenced
to waking...

"the frenzy, at rest"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved