The Owl’s kung fu flight

Who then would remember Owl now!
So far outside his generation!
People’s memory low, dim in 70’s penetration.
The Owl’s infectious repetitive laugh embracing your throat in a viral scarf,
crazy high-pitched kung fu, bubbling up in a joy juice brew.
To drink of this cup, was to fly awry of askew.

The Chief his shaolin rock, sitting high on the wall above the cell blocks,
his influence a temple none dared mock. Not even after he was out paced by life’s clock,
the hardest kung fu out of socks. A locked lock.

And who would remember the Owl now!
So far outside his generation!
Owl quite naturally at home in the night, hunted by moon light,
the large white crabs above water’s edge.
Sometimes literally under the guns of the coastal night watch.
Only those whose kung fu was hard could hunt with the Owl.
He had a code by which he rode.
Of course, there were other human interest the Owl hunted outside his abode.
On dawn’s return from the hunt, you could hear the large clacking claws,
soon to be in a community slaw.
While the crab smell at your senses pawed.

The community would beat a track to Owl’s door, including some pretty young women,
morning and evening, more than usual, even all the more, despite the smell of demons’ lore.
The Owl’s shore was a benevolent store, giving and giving galore.
How the Owl would laugh and laugh!
His pot at pasture’s edge, boiled and boiled a thick crabs’ broth.
A big rock on the cover restricted flight aloft.
The Owl would laugh and laugh.
Crazy high-pitched kung fu.

Up and down the street in his mother’s dress.
Moving to his own beat, his laughter an infectious unrest.
His mother would yell at the Owl, “Come inside and take off my dress.”
How the Owl would laugh and laugh.
Crazy high-pitched kung fu.

Collectively sad was the community, the day Owl was forced outdoors, away from his perch.
The Owl had not been raised in the light and had never been one for church.
He had a giving heart and would leave none in the lurch.
Kindness was his daily merch.
The Chief his rock, no longer walked the earthly block, his influence an empty sock.
The Owl adrift from harbors’ dock.

As the years go by, some spoke of seeing the Owl roosting at bus shelters
and on a well-known bakery wall.
Then it appeared that the Owl had disappeared.
And who would remember Owl now, outside of his generation!
Many having flown their earthly sojourn to the higher peregrination,
borne up on a flood tide of sensation.
Crazy high-pitched kung fu, rising above community life’s iteration,
his laugh soaring high in flights of alliteration.
The vibrations still echoing in the wake of his final migration.

CI–298734215 Knight Truelove Poems



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The Owl’s kung fu flight