Archive for August, 2014


I just published my new poetry book, “(more)” on Amazon Kindle. Check it out! The paperback edition is coming soon.

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.

images (6)



My love lies passed out
     On the old living room couch
            Wine bottle’s empty.



Someday I’ll look back
     At all this chaos and strife
          And smile and walk on.



The sun rose today
     Brilliantly bright and strong
          And then so did I.


By David Allen


Posted: August 22, 2014 in Poetry

Here’s two poems inspired by today’s Last Stanza Poetry Association challenge to write a poem about school starting.

School Daze

By David Allen 

Seventh Grade was the beginning;
The change from teacher’s pet
To the underachiever.
In elementary school I was an A-plus student.
In the seventh they had me looking at pieces
Of cardboard marked with weird-looking black ink stains.
“What do you see?” the psychologists asked.
“Cards smeared with ink,” I answered.
“No, what do you SEE?” she repeated.
“What do you see?” I responded.
Today they’d probably diagnose me as
Suffering from attention deficit disorder.
They dis-enrolled me from the advanced classes –
Latin, algebra, biology –
And put me with the average kids.
And that was okay with me,
It gave me the space to
Catch up on reading Science Fiction
And writing my own future Top Forty rock hits.
The counselor had plenty to work with trying to figure
Out what went wrong over the summer;
I had started a newspaper route, hung out with
The housing project’s juvenile delinquents,
And spent two weeks at a Salvation Army summer camp.
No one knew why I had changed.
 But the “outsider” image was being molded
And it’s lasted me to this day.

By David Allen

School days, school days
Good old rotten school days
Readin’ and writin’ and ‘rithmatic
Faking a cold so my Mom thinks I’m sick.
You were the girl whose braids they inked.
I was the strange kid at whom you winked,
And I wrote you poems that you never got
‘cause we were just a couple of kids.

School days, school days
Those too many rule days
Faking religion to get a note
To skip class to attend the church of the pope.
You were into dance and love songs,
I was the kid they said would go wrong.
I read Sci-fi books that drew stern looks
From teachers who said they were trash.

School days, school days
A 12-year fighting rules phase
Skipping a class to hang out in the john,
Staring out windows and stifling yawns.
You were the straight A student
I was the kid who said screw this.
I already knew more than most kids know
So, I played the outsider instead. in paperback and Kindle formats, or by sending me $10 at:

David Allen
803 Avalon Lane
Chesterfield, IN 46017

bed sheets over head 1

       By David Allen

My conscience
is clean.
I washed it
last night,
rinsed it
with beer
and dried it
by pulling the
bed sheet
over my head.

assasination1            Princip_arrested

Gavrilo Princip assassinates Archduke Ferdinand and is promptly arrested


By David Allen

A wrong turn
A stalled engine
And a cup of coffee
Ignited the “Great War,”
The “War to End all Wars,”
That sparked the century of conflict
That left untold millions dead.

Gavrilo Princip
Leaned against the wall of a café
On Sarajevo’s Franz Josef Street
And wondered how the plot to
Start a revolution went wrong.
“It was a good plan,” he told a friend
While standing on the sidewalk in front
Of Moritz Schiller’s Café.
“Six of us of ‘Young Bosnians’
Lined the motorcade route
That damned royal son-of-a-bitch
Was taking to city hall.
We each had a bomb. Six of us!
How could it have gone wrong?”

The first Young Bosnian
Chickened out and ran from the scene.
The second threw his grenade a second too late
And it exploded under  a car following
Archduke Ferdinand’s convertible.
The heir to the Austro-Hungarian crown,
Emperor Franz Josef’s nephew, was unhurt.
The blast injured two in the second car.
The motorcade sped up , leaving
The four remaining Young Bosnians,
Trained in terror by the Serbian nationalist group,
The “Black Hand,” lost their chance for infamy.

“We were willing to die for a united Yugoslavia,”
Princip told his friend. “Serbia and Bosnia together,
Free from the Austro-Hungarian Empire”

Later, across the city, Ferdinand decided to
Visit those injured in the bombing.
While en-route, the Archduke’s driver
Took a wrong turn.

To his amazement,
Princip saw the Archduke’s touring car
Swing into Franz Josef Street,
He watched in awe as the car attempted to turn
And stalled, just feet front from where he stood.
Quickly, Princip took a few step forward and fired his pistol,
Killing both Ferdinand and his wife.
And the old world died with them.

Princip attempted to turn his gun
On himself, but an onlooker slapped it from his hand.
Nearby police then beat him senseless.
He was tried, and sentenced to only twenty years,
Because he was only 19 years old.
Princip died of tuberculosis in prison
In 1918, just a few months before the war ended
And the wheels spun into motion for World War I
And the rest of the bloody century.

By David Allen

“See?” the student asked
When he finished reading
His history paper.
“World War I started
Because of a succession
Of mistakes.”
“A fine piece of history,”
The teacher said, smiling.
“But don’t believe for a minute
The war could have been averted
Had Princip not stopped for coffee.
Franz Josef was looking for
An excuse to invade Serbia,
The capture of the failed Sarajevo
Bomber would have been cause enough.
Hell, a bad night’s sleep could have
Moved him to give the word.
All of Europe was itching for a fight.

These poems were  a challenge for the Last Stanza Poetry folks. This summer marks the 100th anniversary of the start of World War I and we were tasked to write a poem about the war.  


Posted: August 5, 2014 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , ,



All night long,
I’ve been wishing on this fading star.
But my thoughts won’t go that far,
and your health, like the star, is fading.

It was the first star to come out last night,
bright against the fast darkening sky.
But now, I can barely see —
it’s gone from me.

All night long,
I’ve been worried that your strength is gone,
you’ve been fighting this for far too long.
Your health, like this star, stopped shining.

I should go back inside our room,
but I’m too afraid I’ll catch the gloom,
it’s too hard to be at ease
with this disease.

All night long,
I’ve been sitting here while you’re in bed,
wishing you were sleeping, knowing instead
that you lie awake, body hurting.

I can see no other woman as my wife
to you I pledge my all, I’d gladly give my life
If it’d mean a cure for you
That’s what I’d do.

All night long,
I’ve been putting my words to song,
singing for my love, but something’s wrong,
your health, like this song, stopped rhyming.

      By David Allen


Like my poetry? Then buy my book, “The Story So Far,” published by Writers Ink Press, Long Island, N.Y. You can find it on ( in paperback and Kindle formats, or by sending me $10 at:

David Allen
803 Avalon Lane
Chesterfield, IN 46017






(god) DAMMIT

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.
Where the hell
Are they?

                                  By David Allen