Brandon Nobles,
An Owl Asks a Schizo Who, 2008

I

I was sick, and lay in bed,
and walked alone inside my head.
In the woods I found myself,
looking for someone to help.
Kicking rocks along the path,
feeling dew soaked evening grass.
The twisted trees, they breathed and
swayed,
as dead leaves in a tempest played.
The night was gray, an Autumn eve,
in Twilight, walking through the leaves,
with a coliseum of selves inside my head.

II

I tried to sit, and almost falling,
heard confused voices in me calling.
Vertigo—that spin—appeared;
life's obscure pathway disappeared.
Schizophrenia, I said.
That's all that it could be.
All those different voices can't be me.

III

I'm not so sure that I recall,
whose voice it was that made me fall.
One said, "yes,"
and one said, "no."
I didn't know which way to go.
The true path appeared, and there it lay,
and I walked the other way.

IV

Above I heard a night-owl call.
"Who," said the owl, whose shadow falls,
on the path in front of me,
atop the twisted shapes of trees.
"I'm not sure I've ever known,
myself amid the jam-packed dome."
"Who, who, who," cried out the owl.
"Who, who, who are you?"
I thought a moment, then I said,
"Just a kid who's sick, in bed.
What is it that makes me 'me'?
Miss Karma's equations or destiny?"
Schizophrenia, I said.
That's all that it can be;
just another fevered dream.

V

"Who?" said the owl, above my bed,
and I withdrew into my head.
To find myself, amidst those talking,
to the coliseum I went walking.
For my own self, for me to meet,
time shifted quick beneath my feet.
"Where am I?" I called aloud.
To me turned a faceless crowd.
"You are there," a self spoke up,
and pointed to an empty cup.

VI

I crawled inside and found a child,
at a sea-shore, cold and mild;
with his back forever turned,
the noisy world behind him spurned.
"Are you me?" I had to say.
"Some mental game of chess to play?"
I tried to move, but ran in place,
never did I glimpse his face.
"Who?" the owl called again,
that endless searching to begin.

VII

The child said nothing, looked to the
stream,
a solemn song he had to sing.
He held a flower, dead and broken,
from him to me soft words were spoken.
"It's pretty though it's torn in half."
He dropped the flower, then he laughed,
Looked at it—dead— amidst the grass.
He turned to leave, then looked at me,
and didn't make a sound.
His face was painted like a clown.

I
"That isn't me," I shouted back,
and looked across the sea of black.
My face had on a painted smile;
to hide the real face for a while.
"Let me out," I said, aloud,
and found myself amid the crowd.

II

I walked into a crowd of me,
and found a man with mushroom tea.
"We're all one," said the old man,
extending the cup with his left hand.
"Take a sip," he said, and smiled.
"But you might want to sit a while."
I downed the cup, sat on the floor,
watched even more come through the
door.
Holy men, mystics, and saints,
versions of me with no complaints.
No stress, regrets, anxiety,
just quiet and tranquility.


III

I saw agnostics, atheists too,
they screamed until their face turned
blue.
I was searching through my head,
back at home, collapsed, in bed.

Schizophrenia, again,
a division of the self in men.
Divisions of the self in me,
fevered dreams, insanity.

IV

With his back turned to the room,
a child held a smiling blue balloon,
looking at a lighthouse painting,
down the hall, high on the wall.
"What are you waiting for?" I asked,
remembering that moment past.
He said, "for my father to come home.
I've been waiting all night long.
What do you think that I've done wrong?"

V

I saw a painting by him, and knelt,
in it such loneliness I felt.
A painted puppy in a cage,
excited with his eyebrows raised.
Looking out and waiting too,
'til someone to love,
from here, or above,
that empty archway to come through.

VI

The balloon popped; the young child rose.
It was dawn; the lighthouse closed.
On his way home aloud he sang,
like a prisoner with a ball and chain.
He sang, "This little light of mine,
I tried to let it shine.
Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine."
All the way home he sang, and frowned,
then disappeared into the crowd.

VII

On down the path, I heard a laugh;
snowflakes danced the air.
In the snow, a young child rolled,
smiling without a care.
On the ground, he rolled around,
making angels in the snow.
Until night came, he played and sang,
and then he had to go.

I

When the owl asked the schizo who,
he really didn't know.
He walked about, and had to shout,
for his real self to show.
Inside a dome, like ancient Rome,
he called out for himself.
Then to the sky, whose alibi,
from heaven never fell.

II

Then I saw another me, just seventeen or
so,
sweating in his bedroom with a cigarette
aglow.
Hover

In what part of the world do you live? South Carolina, USA

Title of Poem or Short Story (FOR ALL AUDIENCES ages 0-99) An Owl Asks a Schizo Who