Green

Posted: May 18, 2020 in Poetry
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GREEN
By David Allen

Within a week
the world turned green
outside my humble home.
Branches that bore
tiny green shoots
now bend with the weight
of broad oak leaves.
The woods are alive
with chatterings and coos.
But the leaves hide
the high aerie roosts
and the busy birds
tending their broods.

Wired

Posted: April 21, 2020 in Poetry
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Wired
By David Allen

Something strange
Is happening here. 
Matched socks
Become unmated
When freed from the dryer.
And the footloose 
Shoe stuffers 
Leave no word
Of where they went.

And parking in a space 
Called a driveway 
Leaves me scratching
My head bald and benumbed, 
Remembering how I was also
Confused by driving
On parkways. 

But nothing was as weird
As the warped wire mystery
That messed with me today
As I looked in an old storage tub
For a smartphone charger.
The wires I swear were placed there
Individually months, years ago,
Was one huge mass.

Old phone cords wound around
Extension cords that must have
Extended welcome to strings
Of earbuds and HDMI connectors 
Who gladly wrapped themselves
In a loose wire love fest, 
Apparently testing
All the tangled twists 
Of the Kama Sutra. 

I spent more than an hour
Unwinding them while wondering 
What I would find the next time
I searched for a cord.

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BATTLING THE BUG
By David Allen

We’re hunkered down inside our homes
while Covid 19 is running wild.
The death count’s mounting up
while the President keeps lying.
I’m looking for the Gorilla Glue,
gonna paste my doors and windows,
make sure the bug stays outside
while I watch the horror news
and binge-watch apocalypse movies.
And just to stay safe,
If the bug makes it through a crack
I hope to slow its deathly attack
with my welcoming black bug shirt. 

I’m Afraid to Touch Her

Posted: March 27, 2020 in Poetry
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SLEEPER

 

I’m Afraid to Touch Her 
By David Allen

I’m afraid to touch her.
Sometimes the MS pain’s so bad
she lies in bed all day and wonders
whether life is really worth it all.

I’m afraid to touch her.
I want to tell her it’s okay,
the pain has always briefly eased,
yet now it’s returned much worse.

I’m afraid to touch her.
There’s no telling where next it will hurt,
we can kiss and hug, but not too hard.
There’s no cure for what pains her every day.

I’m afraid to touch her.

 

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COVID 19’ll GET YOU
By David Allen

(With apologies to James Whitcomb Riley)

Little David Allen’s in his house to stay
An’ washes the pots and plates up, meditating on days
Of fear and quarantinin’, meanin’ don’t go out for a drink
“Keep a social distance,” is the order, makin’ one think
If the loneliness is worth it, if you can’t get or give a hug
AIl because we’ve been invaded by a new pandemic bug
Aw, livin’ in this new age just makes me want to shout
Covid 19’ll get you
     If you
          Don’t
               Watch
                    Out!
 

 

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SUNRISE IN AMERICA 
By David Allen

I am waiting for sunrise in America
after this dark, broken night, 
where democracy’s been pummeled
by the clown chief’s rubber mallet
and narcissistic scrawls on edicts
that devastate social programs
and reward the rich elite.

I am waiting for sunrise in America
to shine on the nation’s capital,
where swamp creatures swim laps
around the White House and Senate,
where multitudes hurl protest chants
at their representatives’ deaf ears
and any change for the good is pending.

I am waiting for sunrise in America 
the morning after votes are cast,
to see if the false prince falls
or is enshrined as our new king
bringing on the darker night  and fog,
smothering  what’s left of our  freedoms.

………………………………

This poem is one of three poems of mine published in the fantastic Polk Street Review.

https://squareup.com/store/CEArts/item/the-polk-street-review-2?t=modal-fb

Good Morning

Posted: March 1, 2020 in Poetry, war
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 GOOD MORNING
By David Allen

Good morning
I awake and kiss you lightly on the cheek
          (your pillow is bare)
And softly stroke your long, brown hair.
You turn in bed to face me
Looking into my eyes with eyes
I love to drown my soul in
         (there’s but one body’s impression
         there’s but one side of the bed to make).
 
I whisper softly that I love you
The radio answers with a song
          (I leave it playing all night long
          to accompany this loneliness).
 
I start to leave; you reach for my hand,
We touch 
          (the air is not as soft)
You pull me to your side
          (I stare at the pillow)
I take your head in my hands
We kiss,
Wine sweet.
 
The taste turns bitter
You slowly dissolve
Parts of you breaking apart
A jigsaw puzzle
I scream
I pick up the pieces of you
And start to glue
But the head’s on backwards.
 
My dog jumps on the bed
Scattering you around the room
On my knees I search for you
My dog licks my face
My eyes lose their sleep
I awake.
 
There is no puzzle
My dog sleeps, head nuzzled
In the crook of my arm
You are at home
Unaware that for a while
We made love in 
The life of my night.
 

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LITTLE HAS CHANGED
By David Allen

Back in 1971, I  was a member 
of Vietnam Vets Against the War
standing between two cops, 
hands on my head in surrender, 
getting ready to be carted off to jail
for sitting on the Supreme Court steps.

And now we’re at the dawn of 2020
with another crooked president
and our troops involved in the Forever War.

So, nothing’s changed, 
except for my balding head
and aged aching back,
leaving me wondering.
Should I sit on those steps again 
or will true change take more
than protests and votes?

The Last Leaf

Posted: January 5, 2020 in Poetry
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Photo by D.H.Allen

THE LAST LEAF
By David Allen 

I am the last leaf, 
the last on the bough.
Brown and brittle,
I’ve taken a vow
to mourn for my more 
colorful friends
who took the plunge
to drift to the ground.
I saw them settle
into piles on the lawn, 
where they were raked or rotted, 
no matter, they’re gone. 
And as the days drift by,
I keep watch on a few
other lonely leaves, 
wondering who
will be the last to fall.

My New Pen

Posted: December 28, 2019 in Poetry
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MY NEW PEN
By David Allen 

Is there a difference 
between writing a poem
with a fountain pen
instead of a ballpoint?
Will the words 
be more polished?
More elegant?
Or will I have to
shake it up more
to get the lines to flow?
The pen demanding 
more ink, like opening a vein?
Is a ballpoint pen
simply more mundane?
If so, what about poems
born from platens
or electronic bytes?
Are they too mechanical?
Too removed from emotion?
I wonder as I write.