 | Adidas on Sunrise in America |
| Adidas on My New Pen |
 | Rachel McAlpine on Old Age |
| Aditi Das on Old Age |
 | Lou des Anges on Old Age |
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
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.
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!
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
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.
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?
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
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.
BASTOGNE
By David Allen
Seventy-five years ago
The Germans made their last
offensive move during World War II,
attacking American lines
near the city of Bastogne.
It marked the turning point
of my father’s young life.
My dad and a few other soldiers
found shelter in the basement
of a mansion outside the city
waiting for the German shelling to stop.
But one shell zeroed in on them.
The building collapsed,
killing all except my dad
who was sitting beneath an arch.
When he was dug out
his saviors didn’t know
what to do with him.
As a scout, he wore no
identification which could
give the enemy information
on troop movements.
Also, during the battle many Germans
wore American uniforms in order
to sneak through American lines.
My father, badly wounded,
was taken to a hospital and placed
in a German POW ward.
A sign around his neck said
“This man is not responsible
For his actions.”
Later identified, transferred, and discharged
that sign defined the rest of his life.
Suffering physically and from PTSD,
booze and pills helped
him deal with a broken family
of seven kids and too many lost jobs
and moves for the next 48 years.
Finally, his bedroom became his tomb
for several years before he died.
Sometimes it takes decades to die.
THANKSGIVING’S STAIN
By David Allen
Like many holidays,
Thanksgiving has a dark side.
Much like Columbus Day.
Don’t get me wrong,
I love the idea of getting family
and friends together for an Autumnal feast
to celebrate surviving another year.
That was the reason for the gathering
of Indians and pilgrims that day
some 398 years ago.
The Pilgrims had survived a horrendous year.
Of the 102 who survived the Mayflower’s trip,
only 51 survived the first winter —
22 men, 25 children, and 4 women.
75 percent of the women had died.
The local Indian tribe, the Wampanoag,
helped that first year, showing the Pilgrims
how to farm the New World and 90 of them joined
in the English tradition of celebrating the Fall harvest.
The tribe was repaid over the next 50 years
With murders and massacres.
In 1675, their situation was so dire,
many of them joined in an uprising
called King Philip’s War
The Colonists were too strong by then
And another 40 percent of the tribe were killed.
Many of the Male Indian survivors
were sold into slavery in the Caribbean,
their women and children became farm
and house slaves in New England.
I doubt many of their descendants
Think of this holiday as very thankful.
| Adidas on Sunrise in America |
| Adidas on My New Pen |
| Rachel McAlpine on Old Age |
| Aditi Das on Old Age |
| Lou des Anges on Old Age |
