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WHEN I SEE YOU
By David Allen

When I See You
my heart soars high,
I can float, I can fly,
I can do the things
I’ve always dreamed.

For, you’re my inspiration,
you’re my muse,
you are all the lovers I have known.
You’re my inspiration,
you’re my muse,
you are the flower of the wild seeds I’ve sown 

I saw you first
in a teenager’s dream.
You quenched my thirst
on a desert drive.
You were with me
when I was all alone,
you helped me see
when I was blind.
And when I wrote of love
I was writing just for you,
‘though I had no idea
we would ever ever be.
And when I wrote of pain,
I was crying just for you
and the missing love I thought
would never be.

Now that I’ve found you,
I wonder what you are.
Are you my soulmate
or just a passing star?
Are we meant forever?
Or is it just for now?
I swear, I’d seek the answer,
but I don’t know how. 

So, I stay content with us
as two souls intertwined,
alive within this space
with room for just our hearts.

And if it means foralways
I accept it with a smile,
and put out of mind the time
when we will have to part. 

For, you’re my inspiration,
you’re my muse,
you are the reward for all
the times I almost went insane.
Your’e my inspiration
you’re my muse,
you are the test I finally aced
when the cards were down
and I had to end the game.

You’re my inspiration,
you’re my muse,
you are all the lovers that I’ve known,
you are the flower of the wild seeds I’ve sown.
 

My second book of poetry, “(more)’ is now available on Amazon Kindle. The paperback edition is also available. If you want a signed copy, email me at david@davidallen.nu. Order your copy today! I am like most poets — poor.

(more) Cover

http://www.amazon.com/more-David-Allen-ebook/dp/B00N6W3DP8/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=undefined&sr=1-2&keywords=%28more%29+by+David+Allen

Here’s a review:

5.0 out of 5 stars Wanting (more), September 2, 2014
By Jenny A. Kalahar “the_story_shop” (Elwood, IN USA)
Here are wonderful, literate poems of longing, wit, wisdom and resistance; justice, injustice, the absurdities of life and of growing older. There are lines full of sensuality at every stage of our existence, and of the waste and usefulness around us. Tinged with the atmosphere of the Orient, they are as luxurious as legs that go all the way up. Mr. Allen’s years as a newspaper man stain his poems with a rougher ink that sticks to your fingers long after you’ve turned his pages. There are losses – parents, loved ones, friends – but there are poems of finding and creating. Children, grandchildren, lovers, partners in crime and art all swirl throughout this collection, humming like a secret humming song. But unlike most hummed songs, these words do matter. They do. So read them now and sing along.

SPINAL SCARS

DAYS OF INSANITY
By David Allen

Something’s wrong.
Why am I lying in this hospital bed
when I was transferred to a different hospital
just two days ago?
You see, I have a rare disease
commonly called
Vitamin d resistant rickets
and I was flown from this hospital
to a university hospital in Indianapolis
for a new study on this rare disease,
which shortened and bent me
bowlegged and soft boned.
It affects maybe 1 out of 20,000 people.
The doctors were excited about the study;
other patients were being flown
in from around the country.
So, why was I back in Anderson?
Sure, the operation didn’t go as expected.
There was a lot more cutting
to free the nerves being squished
by the growth of the soft spinal bones.
but now I was back in the bed where I had to lay still for two days
and then starved without food and water for three days
when my stomach swelled as
the meds fought each other instead of
healing me.

“Why am I back here?”
I asked the nurse who came in to take
my vital sighs.
My voice was weak, raspy.
“Back?” she asked. “Honey you never left.”
“No, I was transferred.”
“What day is it?” she asked.
“Thursday,” I said.
“No, it’s Tuesday,” she said. “How do you feel?”
“Confused, I croaked.
“You’ve been hallucinating,” she said.
“There was a bad reaction to post-op drugs.
But at least you sound a bit better today.
and you can start eating again.
Just then my wife walked in,
“How are you, my love?”
“Confused. The nurse said I’ve kinda been out of it.”
“I’m so glad that’s over,” my wife said.
“You were acting crazy.
Sometimes you lost words,
Replacing them with
sounds that made no sense.”

In the following days
I spoke with friends who said
I was “out of it”
when they called or visited.
I thought about those days
and realized I had drifted back decades
to a time I purposefully
lost my mind with mescaline
to examine the me behind this all.
And I didn’t find an answer.
Just like the last two days.

Hello Tuesday,
How’d you like being
Wednesday for a while?”

 

RUTH ELLEN (27 YEARS)

Posted: August 16, 2015 in Poetry
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 Me and my Muse, Okinawa 2005 (or so)

RUTH ELLEN (27 YEARS)
By David Allen
 

Ruth Ellen, I’m tellin’
You don’t look your age
Your beauty’s compelling
And worth every page
Of the dozens of poems
I wrote of you and our love
 

You remain my muse
As you were before we met
I just didn’t know back then
If I would ever get
To be with the woman
Who haunted my dreams
Faceless, she beckoned
Her outstretched arms seemed
To invite the poet in.

 In the traditional wedding vow
The couple agrees to remain together
“In sickness and health”
Well, we’ve lived that line
And we’re coming out fine
We’ve remain unbeaten, if weathered.

 

Chesterfield, IN
16 Aug, 2015

 

Hiroshima2

THE BOMB and CHILDREN OF THE 50s
By David Allen

Twenty years ago
I journeyed to Hiroshima
with my Japanese interpreter
to cover the 50th anniversary
of the atomic bombing
of Hiroshima.

I was stunned by what I saw.
It was a thriving city of more than a million
with only a now hallowed building
that partially survived
the day the city was turned to ashes.
This is where Chiyomi, my translator,
 grew up in the early 50s.

A half world away,
16 years after Hiroshima was leveled,
I was a tow-headed Long Island kid
hiding under my school desk,
hands over my head,
pretending I could survive
a nuclear attack on nearby New York.

Surprisingly, the children of Hiroshima
never experienced that trauma.
“We hardly ever talked about the bomb,”
Chiyomi told me.
“I think the adults — our parents, our teachers — 
tried to prevent the tragedy from touching us.”
Although there are still shadows
of people burned into sidewalks and walls
at the time bomb the Americans called “Little Man”
exploded, Chiyomi said it did not
cast a  shadow on her life.

“With the exception
of the annual memorial,
the bombing was hardly
ever on our minds,” Chiyomi said.
No one talked about it much.
The schools scrubbed
Japan’s Asian aggression clean.
So much time was spent
on ancient Japanese history —
about Shoguns and the
the Kamikazes, intense storms
that smashed two Mongol invasion fleets,
there was little time left for most recent war.

“No one felt threatened, she said.”

We did on Long Island.
Dozens of low-budget horror movies
depicted rampaging nuclear monsters
mostly giant mutated insects,
terrorizing the countryside.

But in Hiroshima, the worst was long over.
One afternoon Chiyomi and I
interviewed a couple who survived
the devastating blast and seriously injured,
somehow  found each other
and never left each other’s side since.
Surrounding us were a dozen
family members, dazed
in  rapt attention.
They had never heard the story before.

People just didn’t talk
about the bomb that scared
and scarred the young me.
But not Chiyomi.

Hiroshima 1

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AUTOMATICALLY
By David Allen

And now
I write
the words
my subconscious
demands
and worry
they will
say something
I do not
want anybody
to know.

ATTEMPTED POETRY

Posted: July 29, 2015 in Poetry
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ATTEMPTED POETRY
By David Allen

1 a.m.
You say our love
has stopped growing
it’s slowing,
unknowing
at first, but now
you can feel it still

I say our love
is still reaching,
still teaching,
still preaching,
it’s that unquenched,
undying, unkilled

2 a.m.
Early in the morning
upstairs you sleep
and dream the dreams
you rarely remember.

Downstairs I write
right through the night
and ponder our love’s
December.

3 a.m.
Asleep, I dream
that I’m asleep
in your arms,
a sleep that’s deep,
and as I dream
I smile, asleep
and loved, I dream
I’m safe asleep.

4 .m.
I sit here writing,
wondering what’s to be.
Why can’t we save this marriage
if I love you and you love me?

                                                 Fort Wayne, 1988

 (Note, In January we will have been married 27 years.) 

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(god) DAMMIT
By David Allen

Sitting here
Drinking coffee,
Scarfing down
A cheese Danish,
Waiting for the atheists
To arrive.
A movie night
With the Okinawa
Freethought Society,
Gonna watch a flick
About how religion’s
“The Root of All Evil,”
By Richard Dawkins.
But it’s already 8 p.m.
And no one’s
Showed up yet.
Goddamit!
Where the hell
Are they?

CLUB RED

Posted: July 1, 2015 in Poetry

POETRY 1

Poet Michael DeVito, a former Marine, belts one out at the Club Red

CLUB RED

I am still trying
to figure out what
Sesame Street is
all about, playing
on the TV screens
over the bar.
Last time I wandered
in here there were
young college co-eds 
showing their titties
at some X-rated Spring Break.
Now I watch
Conjunction Junction
and figure, hell,
both videos make some
kind of perverted sense
at Open Mike poetry night
at the Club Red.
                                        November, 2003
                                        Okinawa, Japan

Note: During the late ’90s and early ’00s, I was a part of the Eat Write Cafe and Traveling Poets Society on Okinawa. We were a bunch of poets, civilian and military, who met at local bars and held Open Mic nights. Everyone was welcome. The reception was amazing. Sometimes a Marine or Airman sitting at the bar who had come in just to drink would pick up a pen, write something on a napkin and join the fray. And it was like a fight night. Poets who had already read would hang out in the back of the room pacing back and forth, like punch drunk boxers, waiting for another round. And afterwards, we would would sometimes gather at my house on Camp Foster to rant, read and drink until the sun came up. 

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HAIKU CHALLENGE

Working as a news bureau chief for Stars and Stripes on Guam and Okinawa were the best 19 years of my newspaper career. There usually was plenty to do, but sometimes the news was slow and the staff, scattered across the Far East, shared haikus to while away the time. Here’s one started by The South Korea Bureau Chief one day:

The subject: Base PAOs. (Don’t forget, 5,7,5.) I’ll start:

“E-mail the question
Expect an answer by 5
No comment, thank you”

So, I answered with:

I NEED AN ANSWER NOW
“Dammit,” he replied.
“How do you spell that?” I asked.
“D-A-V-I-D.”

And another reporter came up with:

Ask me no questions,
I’ll tell you no lies, unless
you prefer bullshit.

So, an editor wrote:

Jack Daniels, my friend.
Please prevent me from killing
The guy on the phone.

My next submission was:

the questions are old
I await the brasshole’s call
and his blank reply

Which was promptly answered with:

Warzinski speaks fast:
“Mmmm srnn fennn bumn mmm Japan”
What the fuck was that?

Followed by a reporter:

Thank you for calling.
Leave a message…we’ll call when
Sherman leaves Georgia.

And another by me:

deadline is looming
the telephone remains mute
Sid says, “killing me.”

Followed by an editor’s:

We pulled the curfew.
Not because of your story;
Ummm, we planned it. Yeah.

To which another editor responded:

The razor is dull
and my wrists are deeply scarred
when the phone call ends

And I answered:

“why not write good news?”
the Marine officer asked.
when you are we will.

Another editor then wrote:

Interview request?
Just e-mail us your questions.
We like that better.

To which the founder of the challenge answered:
Since this one is almost a perfect quote – and Joe will back it up (remember the conversation with Nowell?) – I think I win!

Why would I give you
information when I can’t
control what you write?

Followed by this protest:

In twenty-four years,
Flack is most unfair and mean.
Take ball and go home.

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I THOUGHT I SAW MY SPLEEN LAST NIGHT
            By David Allen

 I thought I saw my spleen last night
Had grown to five times its size
There is no doubt, it must come out
The doc said with a sigh.
He made a deep incision
Under my left rib cage
And plunged inside with gloved hand
And thus, the battle was engaged.
Air was pumped into my belly
To make room for his search
But as the doc’s cold fingers found
The spleen gave a sudden lurch.
“Hold on, please don’t be hasty,”
It said with a cry of pain.
“I’m too attached to my host,
Leave me be, I’ll shrink again.”
“There’s a lymph node here that too has grown
Why not take him instead?
There’s plenty more where he came from
While I’m the only spleen my host gets.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” the surgeon said
The lymph node can tell us a lot.
And removing you would be tricky
And you’re the only one he’s got.”
 So, the lymph node was sacrificed
And the wound was stapled shut
And morphine calms the intense pain
Coming from my gut.