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Best Poems Written by L. Owens

Below are the all-time best L. Owens poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | L. Owens Poem

Truth

I want the truth.
The whole truth, not your spin
doctor, sound bite version of
the truth, but the real deal, 
honest to God
Baptist preacher on Easter
Sunday morning truth.
The kind of truth you only tell
your mama, because she’s psychic,
and it’s a waste of time trying to 
tell her anything else anyway.
Okay, let’s have it.
I’m a big girl and I can take it,
I won’t cry.
I want the truth.
The whole truth.
Did you eat the last
damn slice of pizza?

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Seduction

Take your time, take your time
patience is a virtue.
Take your time, seduce my mind
and the rest will surely follow.
I need cerebral stimulation to complete
the physical equation. I’m funny that way.
I want to know there’s a mind 
in the body next to mine.
Flood me with powerful words full
of truth and wisdom and humor –
your throbbing prowess held in check.
Wrap me, clothe me, and cover me in
your ever expanding intellect.
Paint vivid, moving pictures with
your skillful orator’s tongue.
Take me to the pinnacle, then pull
back – slowly – not too far. 
Take your time, take your time
patience is a virtue.
Articulate.
Enunciate.
Edify.
Satisfy.
Take your time, take your time.
Seduce my mind, seduce my mind.

Details | L. Owens Poem

She Won'T Be Back

He thought he saw her again last night, but it’s just a
dream he keeps having. She won’t be back – he’s seen to that.
The gods of irony smile as she – in conditioned silence –
stands over his supine body. Her lips still afraid to move.
As if for the first time, he sees the fullness and beauty
of her mouth. He wants to touch its softness and be healed.
But, when he reaches out she disappears. It’s just a 
dream he keeps having. She won’t be back – he’s seen to that.
Her copious tears strike him like morning sun, and he wishes
he could shield his face from the light of so much shame.
Instead he reaches out to comfort her and save himself.
But, she vanishes, again. It’s just a dream he keeps having.
She won’t be back – he’s seen to that. 
Scarlet drops stain her skin. Torn clothes no longer 
hide their shared binding secret. All truth is told in dreams.
He wants to hold her. Mend her. Salvage the pieces
of his own ragged soul. He reaches out a trembling hand.
She’s gone. Again last night he thought he saw her.
But it’s just a dream he keeps having.
She won’t be back – he’s seen to that.

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Connection

I have a friend who smiles a lot – she prays a lot, too.
There could be a connection. And being more spiritual
than religious, my friend has the flexibility to be 
giving, forgiving, fun and human. I like this about her.
My friend finds little romance in Hip-Hop, but 
respects her daughter’s right to try. Old school to
the bone, she loves the O’Jays, Gladys, Marvin and Aretha.
My friend tells great dirty jokes and knows all the 
best swear words. Only big, well proportioned men need
apply. She wants their kindness and devotion to astound her -
their prowess to exhaust and do her good like medicine.
I like this about her, too.
My friend rises early each day to run, to run, to run.
To be alone with herself and her higher power.
“Let not your heart be troubled.”
Words from an ancient tome she treasures for
its comfort. I like this about her as well.
I have a friend who smiles a lot.
She prays a lot, too.
There could be a connection.

Details | L. Owens Poem

Always

You ask me in all seriousness if I will love you always.
What kind of question is that? Really, what kind of question is that?
I can’t see past this second, the tip of my nose or the next
feminine hygiene commercial. Ask me a question I can answer
with the pride of certainty. Give me a fighting chance to look 
smart. Don’t force me to be mystical and all knowing.
Someone else has that job – I think you know him.
Ask me something that I can wrap my response around
like smooth, thick, sweet honey. After all, this is real life –
not the last thirty seconds of Days of our Lives. 
Ask me why your smile is like free medicine. Ask me
why the beating of your heart helps me get to sleep at night.
Ask me why – with enough hot sauce – your scrambled 
eggs are becoming a favorite meal.
You ask me in all seriousness if I will love you always.
What kind of question is that? Really, What kind
of question is that?

Details | L. Owens Poem

A Statement of Fact

We are who we are. But then again we’ve always known that,
and made no apologies for the truth of our uniqueness.
We are who we are. A simple, painful statement of fact.
Like the eastern rising and western setting of the sun, there
are some things we must accept – albeit slowly – as unchangeable.
Unalterable. Fixed. Carved in stone.
We are who we are. A simple statement of fact.
It is dangerous and unwise to strip away pieces of our true
selves , while trying to remain whole. 
We diminish our souls and our soundness by rounding our
corners and sharpening our curves, to better force ourselves
into tight, unnatural spaces with only enough air for one. 
With you I have become an ebony Alice, on the wrong side 
of the looking glass. And you are a long, long way from Kansas.
You are who you are. A two hundred mile an hour hurricane,
with a smile. I am who I am. A resting place with small, warm hands. 
We are who we are. Just not together anymore.
We are who we are. A simple statement of fact.

Details | L. Owens Poem

I Like

I like the way you always remember that I like
my orange juice with pulp, my popcorn without butter,
and that I can’t stand squash – 
fried, steamed or otherwise.
I like that you understand without asking why I 
sometimes cry when I see men who are fathers 
and fathers who are men, holding their little girls’
hands, and smiling.
I like that you listen with your heart, and eyes and 
hands. I like that you don’t have all the answers,
and never pretend to.
I like that you’re flawed, and strong, and funny,
and kind, and smart. 
I like that you love books and Etta James, and
think that the Road Runner is cool. 
I like the comfort we share, and that you
say I make your heart beat faster.
Then add with a smile,
“But damn baby, what a way to go!”

Details | L. Owens Poem

Willow

She lies in a separate shadowy space,
that is largely unattended.
Cut off from the world in 
death as in life.
Covered by a comfortless blanket of
angry thorns that – like him –
seek blood if approached incorrectly.
From the wrong direction,
on the wrong day,
at the wrong moment,
one second too soon,
lacking the right answer.
(Which she rarely seemed to possess)
Sad, headless stems in small pots with
faded ribbons fall at her feet – 
as she did at his.
Each time the last.
Each time the last.
And at her head a struggling willow.
It’s potential, like hers, slowly 
choked away from lack of care.
Wind, rain, sun and time 
all now conspire to strip away
a little more of her name each day.
Soon leaving all to wonder
who she was. 
She lies in a separate shadowy space,
that is largely
unattended.

Details | L. Owens Poem

Miz Claudie Walker

A choir of earthly Black angels – with voices fit for Heaven –
sang Amazing Grace as ancient Miz Claudie Walker
had never heard it sung before.
She had not known that it was Lillian’s favorite hymn,
or that she’d soothed Miz Claudie’s own son with its
words of sweet salvation as he lay dying – 
consumed by fever. 
What Miz Claudie Walker did know was how
well Lillian scrubbed and polished her lonely
castle. The one she insisted Lillian
always enter through the back.
Miz Claudie did know that Lillian cooked
meals fit for any queen, but never once
invited her to sit down at the banquet table.
And Miz Claudie was well aware that Lillian 
often knelt on tired knees, to dry her children’s
tears, when Miz Claudie herself
did not have the time.
“Go home now, Sister Lillian –
and take your sweet, sweet rest,”
Reverend Tucker said,
“We loved you oh so dearly,
but our Jesus loved you best.”
A choir of earthly Black angels – with voices fit for Heaven –
sang Amazing Grace, as ancient Miz Claudie Walker
touched Lillian’s still hand.

Details | L. Owens Poem

Shadows

It’s Sunday morning – early morning –
and already you are gone.
The shadows of night – still unyielded
to the sun – lay still and soft across
my bed, holding me in arms that
should be yours.
The shadows are more faithful. 
I cling to your moist pillow, 
needing it to be your heart.
Our Saturday night love is a
lukewarm, melancholy dream.
I stay under the covers, hoping it
won’t flee and follow you, who cast
it off as quickly and unceremoniously and
happily as a blanket in Hell in July.
It’s Sunday morning and the 
shadows are more faithful.