FOR YOU SCAREDYCATS

Posted: July 12, 2018 in Poetry
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FOR YOU SCAREDYCATS
By David Allen

It’s Friday the 13th
So what?
“What, me worry?”
Has been my life’s theme
Ever since my Aunt Jessie
Gave me an issue of Mad Magazine
Back when I was still in grade school.
So, superstitious? Me?
Bah! In the “Step on a Crack” game
I stepped on every one
And my mother was backache free
Into her 70s.

(Now , it’s true she had a pain in the neck –
Me! Ever since I learned to walk.
And many others have dubbed me
That in the long decades since.)

So, superstitious?
Give me a ladder to walk under
And a black cat’s path to cross.
Why, I’d volunteer to be third
On a match if I smoked.
Phooey on all you superstitious fools!
If I lived in an apartment tower
I’d pick the 13th floor.
Hell, the house I live in now
Is the last on the left on a dead end street,
Where the sidewalk ends,
With dark, thick woods out back.
The perfect place for a horror story.

 

 

Now It’s Personal

Posted: June 29, 2018 in Poetry
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NEwsroom

Petersburg, Va. Progress-Index newsroom 1978
 

NOW IT’S PERSONAL
By David Allen

Okay, now it’s personal.
Five journalists were shot dead
Today in a Maryland newsroom
By a maniac upset about a years-old story
That named him a harasser, a serial nut job.
He shot his way through a glass door
And unloaded his shotgun
At people dodging for cover.

Years ago, that could have been me.
For almost four decades I covered the news,
I was threatened many times
By people upset by the truths
My stories uncovered.
Once, I received a note,
Cut-out letters pasted on
An ink-stained piece of paper.
My name was at the top
Of a list of editors and the city mayor,
Declaring, “Death to you.
Death to your families.”
I laughed and photocopied
The note before calling the police.
I reveled at being named first.

I’m not sure I’d laugh today
Violence in this country is rampant
Madmen act out their threats with guns.
I cry for those killed today
And seethe with anger.

But then I remember
Advice I once saw written
On a Japanese tee shirt:
“Don’t let the teardrops
Rust your shining heart.”

I’ll try
But it’s getting damn hard.

*NOTE: The threat I received was at the Fort Wayne, IN, News-Sentinel, but I don’t have a photo of that newsroom.

 

 

Slow Motion Wait

Posted: June 28, 2018 in Poetry
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Slow Motion Wait
By David Allen

The TV in the auto dealership waiting room
Is playing Days of Our Lives.
“Like sand in an hourglass
So are the days of our lives.”
(cue the theme song)

That’s my life today
Nothing to do but wait
While my car gets its 80,000-mile check
Because there’s no one available
To take me to lunch.

Slowly, the grains of sand fall
Maybe a dozen a second
As I ache for a remote control
So I can change the channel
To turn off the damn drama.
But two old ladies in chairs
Across the room are paying
Rapt attention to the soap.

It’s killing me.

I’m in no mood for crosswords.
I mean puzzles,
There’s plenty of obscenities
Lodged in my mind about
The wait
My aching bones
Our crazed POTUS

But I remain silent
Waiting.

I am already preparing
For the time after the oil change,
Tire rotation, and other routine checks,
When the car service guy
Will come in and pleasantly say
“Hi, Mr. Allen. Well we’re done
And your car’s ready. And did you know…
Blah, blah, blah needs to be fixed?
Do you want to set a date?”

I know it will cost me more
Than I can afford.
And I’ll nod and thank him and
Politely say, I’ll think about it
“What will today’s bill be?”

We have the same conversation
Every time I come here.
I’d go elsewhere,
But it’s cheap here.
I am a VIP.

Just as I start to erase those thoughts,
I hear someone say “Sometimes,
I wish I were someplace else.”
“Me, too, pal,” I mutter, realizing
It’s the man hunk on the screen.
His woman says something I don’t quite get.
I wish I had been paying more attention to the show.

“Sometimes, I wish I were someone else,”
The tube guy whispers.
“Well, yeah,” I start, but am interrupted
By a voice behind me.

“Mr. Allen, your car’s ready.
Now the brakes are squeaky … “

Angry

Posted: June 22, 2018 in Poetry
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ANGRY
By David Allen

I’m white
And I’m not proud.
I’m an American
And I’m embarrassed.

This country’s tilted
Far to the Right
And I’m rolling off
Into the abyss
Of what Trump
Has wrought.
I don’t feel safe
I’m worried blue.

The Trumpists blare
And I feel scared.
But not as much
As a Guatemalan Mom
Whose arms are empty
Her children gone
And placed in cages
In internment towns.

It’s a replay
Of the ugly days
When we chose
To lock up folks
With yellow skin.
Now the skin’s brown,
But it’s still a sin
We commit today
Against the folks
Who chose to run away
From terror at home.

June Thoughts

Posted: June 10, 2018 in Poetry
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memorialdaypictures.org

JUNE THOUGHTS
By David Allen

June is the month
That comes between
The holiday for heroes
Who died protecting
The freedoms guaranteed
By the second holiday.
 
The deadly shots of the first
Turn into fireworks for the second.

Decades ago, I first wondered ,
While listening to Marines
Jaw drunkenly  in a San Juan bar
About the horrors of Vietnam,
Whether our brave military dead
Might be rolling in their graves.

Did they feel forgotten and betrayed
By the politicians who sent them to die
In a nightmare conflict that had nothing
To do with protecting their freedoms at home?

I was just a lucky sailor sent to do my two years
Of active duty on a rusting Landing Ship
That took war-hardened Marines on
Pleasure cruises, supposedly protecting
The Caribbean against Communism.

Mostly, we just drank and whored
And forgot about the still-raging blood fest
That would darken the souls of some veteran’s
Years after their uniforms were packed away.

This June I continue to scratch my head
Wondering what the dead from recent war-torn fronts
May feel about dying for oil, religion, despots and
The oligarchs that control the shifting sands
Of history from behind the screens.

 

 

Scattered

Posted: June 4, 2018 in Poetry
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SCATTERED
By David Allen

While driving down Anderson’s miles
Of struggling stores and an empty mall,
I realized the name of the four-lane road
Was appropriately named Scatterfield.
The strip malls are pocked with “closing” signs
And bright lights shining on empty shelves.
Even the pawn shop has given up any hope
Of making money from jobless clerks
Hocking their futures for a few bucks
To buy a gallon of milk at the Dollar Store.
Success seems scattered on Scatterfield.
A flea market dominates a once thriving strip.
Nearby, cheap, damaged bulk items are stocked
In a former brand name big box store.

The drivers negotiating the pot-holed boulevard
Scatter down Scatterfield, many on their way
To drug stores, cut-rate medical mills,
“No Credit Needed” used car lots,
And the always crowded Goodwill.

I drive on, shake my head and wonder
Why our country’s economic boom
Has bypassed this Middle American mess
Until I realize I missed my turn a mile back.
I’m scatterbrained on Scatterfield.

 

The Boot

Posted: May 28, 2018 in Poetry
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boot

THE BOOT
By David Allen

The worn combat boot
Stands alone in the sand
Weather-baked faded leather,
Toe scraped and colorless,
It’s mate nowhere to be seen.
Laced halfway, the loose strands
Fall to the ground, run under the heel
And then trail off in the white sand.
The sweltering sun creates a lonesome shadow.

Is this some landing beach
From a decades-old Pacific war?
Or a desert scene from a more recent conflict?
The boot is not saying
It just stands at attention
Proud, perhaps, that it hasn’t fallen.
It keeps watch over something.

I stare and wonder where the wearer went
Was he a survivor, blown out of his boot
By a mine — now footless but free?
Or was the boot planted here
To honor a fallen friend?
The boot is still not talking
It just stands there, silent,
Leaving it’s meaning
To whoever meanders by.

Whatcha Lookin’ For?

Posted: May 18, 2018 in Poetry
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WHATCHA LOOKIN’ FOR?
By David Allen

Cruisin’ slow through the neighborhood,
Causing my passenger to mutter,
“Whatcha lookin’ for, some sign from God?”

Nah, I’m lookin’ for
A sign for a yard —
Sale, that is,
Some place where I can rummage
Through someone else’s life,
Examine the pieces of their past,
Old books with broken spines
And underlined passages
That once meant more
Than the 25 cent sticker
Pasted on the cover’s corner;
Maybe a video in a format
Almost as forgotten as
The romantic night on the couch
Munching more than popcorn;
Or a toolbelt retired
From the job at the shuttered mill
In the aging town with overgrown lots
As empty as the old lady’s eyes
As she sells frayed towels in faded colors
And her creaking rocker.
The grandchildren she sang to sleep are gone.
What else might I find?
Maybe a dented bicycle helmet,
Reminder of a scary night in the ER;
Fishing gear sold by the wheelchair
Bound diabetic amputee;
Cookbooks with place holders
Marking recipes long forgotten
By the widow who dines alone.

Yeah, I’m lookin’ for a yard sign marking
Some place with memories for sale,
Some place where I can lose myself
In someone else’s dimming past
As I run away from my own.

NOTE: Schedulding our first major yardsailing trip thie weekend with my Muse. Reminded me of this poem I wrote a few years ago.

Emojis

Posted: May 14, 2018 in Poetry
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EMOJIS
By David Allen

There they are again —
Thumbs Up, Smiley, Wow, and Anger,
All waiting for me to choose one
As a picture comment of my feelings
About a Facebook post.
But what do they really mean?
Is  Smiley laughing at the humor posted,
Or at the user who dumbly shared it?
And is Wow amazed at the post’s incredible insight,
Or that someone would fall for such nonsense?
And Anger? Who is it directed at?
Is it the hilarious post about dimwitted Trump,
Or the poster for publishing such treasonous stuff?
Take your pick.

Emojis, like the words they seek to replace,
Mean what you read into them.
It’s another gift from the Japanese
Who confound us with “Japlish,”
The English they use on tee shirts, signs
And notebook covers, that confound
Us with their unintentional Zen.
They were born in Japan,
The word means “picture character.”
Years before Zuckerberg possessed our souls.

In the late 1990s, Tokyo Thumbalinas
Ruled the net, speedily posting messages
On cell phones, choosing an emoji
To quickly share their feelings.

At first, just a dozen or so yellow-faced emojis were created
Now there are thousands used internationally.

 

The Leaves

Posted: May 12, 2018 in Poetry
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THE LEAVES
By David Allen

On the last day of April
I raked the leaves of Autumn
That had piled around my home
When they were given a reprieve
From a November pyre
While I recovered from
An operation on my spine.
The oak leaves found a refuge
Piled high against my walls
Blown there by brisk winter winds
Which saved them from the snow.

So, feeling I was able, I ambled
To my backyard, armed with
Two rakes and a cold ice tea.
And I attacked the dry mounds
Raking the leaves away,
Enjoying the exercise on
A welcomed sunny day.
I heaped the dry, mildewed mess
Into one large heap and added twigs
And woody garbage I thought
Would serve as a gala bonfire
To celebrate my long-sought victory.

But no, the forecast calls for
A heat wave, we’re “red flagged”
There’s danger in the dry air
Outdoor fires could quickly spread.

And so, the leaf pile sits there
A foliage fiend thumbing its nose
A the raker warrior at the window
Swallowing a handful of aspirin
While the nightly forecast calls
For the hot day to be followed
By two days of flooding rain.

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