Author: carysowenpoetry3028

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I’m sinking like a hippopotamus

walking on the bottom

water overhead

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I push myself up to the surface

take a great gulp of air

before falling again

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Gravity pulls me down

I’m too dense too float

filled up with woes

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Down below I wander

make new trails

try to find a way out

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With all my might

I rise to the surface again

thirsty for air

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Then sink, sink, sink

to an in-between place

where sounds are muffled

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There’s a channel I follow

made by an elder

who came before

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This is the way of the hippos

forging underwater laneways

opening up weed beds

allowing ideas to flow

along with fresh currents

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This is the way of the hippos

bringing life in solitary journeys

then gathering in the shallows

to share stories and love

and new ways of being

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By Carys Owen

‘Hippos’ is based on another great animal fact I just learned.

Perhaps you already know that hippos don’t swim- they’re too

dense- so they either hang out in the shallows or walk in the

deeper water, pushing themselves up for air every now and then.

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Into the dark

December is here

tightening the belt

before the shortest day

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December is here

we fall into darkness

before the shortest day

not knowing how to fly

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We fall into darkness

and reach for fairy lights

not knowing how to fly

the tar barrel flares

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We reach for fairy lights

tightening the belt

the tar barrel flares

into the dark

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By Carys Owen

Note: this poem is a pantoum- a form that contains echoes

that can transform a simple poem into something lyrical.

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He sits in the parlour

playing old-time fiddle

singing songs of the mines

with a voice so true

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Do they hear him?

The tunnels below?

The multitude of miners?

The ones who didn’t come home?

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He sings of hardship

of tunnel collapse

of injury and blackness

of dying and turning to coal

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I hear it echo

in the underground shafts

down a misty alley

among crooked shacks

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He sings of resilience

of carrying on

of camaraderie

and perseverance

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Do they hear him?

The tunnels below?

The multitude of miners?

The ones who didn’t come home?

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He sings of suffering for all

of mothers and children

thrown out on the street

soon as Pa was no more

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I hear it echo

in the underground shafts

down a misty alley

among crooked shacks

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An age old story

of mining black gold

of extracting riches

for another to hold

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He sits in the parlour

playing old-time fiddle

singing songs of the mines

with a voice so true

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Do they hear him? 

The tunnels below?

The multitude of miners? 

The ones who didn’t come home?

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By Carys Owen

Inspired by the band ‘The Fly Smackers’

who played at the Woodstove Festival 2024

in Cumberland BC

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Lost at sea, tossed by the waves

seeking safe harbour

I sail through metaphors

to the truth of the matter

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Seeking safe harbour

I follow chart and compass

to the truth of the matter

to the place where words swim free

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I follow chart and compass

keeping my head above water

to the place where words swim free

and my eyes come into focus

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Keeping my head above water

I sail through metaphors

and my eyes come into focus

lost at sea, tossed by the waves

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By Carys Owen

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Today I wrote a pantoum for the dVerse poetry prompt:

‘The prompt for today—write a poem about boats/ships, boating of any sort.’

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Early hip-hop

~ we’re talking early 80’s ~

blares on the boom-box…

…we pass an arm wave

round the circle

holding hands

and laughing

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I’m working in

a youth centre

~ in my early 20’s ~

trying to connect

with the disconnected

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They lay down

flattened cardboard

in the middle of the room

crank the music

and take turns

busting a move

popping and locking

three-step into worm

shoulder freeze, shooting star

and head-spin

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‘Go on!’ they shout

‘Have a go!’

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Caught up in the moment

wanting to reach them

I step forward

bow my head

kick up my legs

with no fear

of breaking

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By Carys Owen

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This week’s dVerse poetry prompt: ‘You must simply pen a poem to the theme of dance.’

This brought back a long forgotten memory of some cool teens trying to school a twenty two year old me. Good times!

Fellow trivia nerds will be interested to know that Breaking (Break Dancing) will feature in the 2024 Paris Olympics.

This poem is a departure from my usual style. It was written for a prompt from dVerse Poetics : Write a poem that is a prequel to a particular character from a nursery rhyme, Aesop’s fable, book, or mythology. Be sure it’s clear in the poem, who you’re writing about.

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Fairy Dust

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I was once the most fabulous fairy in the land

with millions of followers on Instagram

and all the magic dust a girl could wish for

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I conjured myself fabulous gowns and

diamond encrusted slippers

fancy tiaras and shimmers for my wings

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Everyone told me how gorgeous I was

how they admired my sparkling beauty

and envied my perfect life

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But somehow I felt empty and alone

the more I posted, the less I smiled

all my friends were online…were they even real?

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Then one day I was flying around

~ to be honest I was showing off ~

when I heard someone weeping down below

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Something turned in me and I found myself

alighting by a sad young woman

sitting by a fireplace wearing ragged clothes

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For the first time in ages, I sat

and listened and found myself asking

‘How can I help?’

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The rest is history…

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By Carys Owen

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We take the ferry across

as sunlight bounces off the Tyne

looking back we see modern shapes

soften edges of decay

~ old docks resuscitated

once bursting with

fish boats and ship building

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Toward the river-mouth

we see lifeboats suspended

on cradles ready to go save

mariners in any tide or storm

small fishing fleets anchor

close to shore

and in North Shields

a harbour continues to

offer shelter and home

to trawlers, drifters

inshore seine-netters

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Corten steel sculptures

narrate the history

of these wharfs

~ a herring girl

holding the catch aloft

her knitting at her side

~ a fisherman at Fiddler’s Green

waiting for the souls of those

lost or wandering

he gazes out to sea in all weathers

growing a coat of rust

built of rain and tears

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Then back again past

the nets and cable drums

the crab traps and the

fishing floats, the smell

of diesel in the air

and fish and chip

shops getting ready

for the evening rush

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Aboard the ferry

bound for South Shields

as the vessel comes about

we notice the iconic

Herd Groyne Lighthouse

straddling the far distance

no longer needed for

it’s warning signals but

much loved as a sign

of welcome home

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By Carys Owen

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Written for a poetry prompt from dVerse Poetics: ‘City Love’.

Compared to my rural home on Vancouver Island,

North and South Shields in UK felt like cities to me.

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Barred owl sits on a tree

in broad daylight

noticing

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She tips her head to

allow her asymmetrical

hearing

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Feathers are ruffled

to warm her as she

waits

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She glides on hushed wings

and drops her gathered wisdom

in the snow

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By Cary Owen

Written for the prompt ‘Creatures of the blank page’ set by