Archive for September, 2014

BIRD NEST

Posted: September 28, 2014 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , ,

bird nest 3

BIRD NEST
By David Allen

I gave my love a
bird’s nest that I
found while mowing
the yard and she
marveled and cooed,
“It must have been built
by a mourning dove.”
She examined it carefully,
noting a toothpick
was embedded in the
twigs and short grass.

Later, I read her a new poem.
She listened patiently and frowned.
“But you don’t believe in God.
How can you write about the Pearly Gates?”
I tried to explain, but it’s difficult when
I don’t even know where the words come from.
And, anyway, I never said I didn’t
believe in a god or some afterlife.
I just believe it doesn’t matter.
What will happen will happen.
We shouldn’t live good lives just
In case there is some kind of super
Being on the other side judging us.
Living morally is the just way the way to be.
You don’t do good so you’ll get a reward.
You do it because it’s right.

I should have quit
with the bird nest.
She understood that.

 

My second book of poetry, “(more)’ is now available in Kindle and paperback editions.  Order your copy today!

KINDLE:

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

PAPERBACK:

http://www.amazon.com/more-David-G-Allen/dp/1501018930/ref=sr_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1411007090&sr=1-4&keywords=%28more%29+by+David+Allen

Bone scanner 2

THROUGH A SCANNER DARKLY
By David Allen

My aching bones
brought me to this
nuclear medicine lab
where a smiling nurse
filled me with a radioactive
soup that made my bones glow
for the scanner.

Lying flat on my back,
hands over my head,
the lab light darkened
as the huge metal machine
rolled over my body,
two inches above my nose,
and took pictures of my bones
as I quickly fell asleep
(it’s a talent I have).

Soon, I was in a Midwest newsroom
where I spent some eight years
as the ace crime reporter,
listening to some management geek
explain that the news staff
was to be reduced by four reporters.
A RIF, he called it, as if reduction in force
was more polite than just saying,
“Get the fuck outta here.”

I enviously eyed the computer
that sat on a small rolling table
I shared with the reporter
at the next cubicle.
I was hoping the firings would
free up some space, so I could have
the computer all to myself,
and maybe moved my pile of clips
and news releases and other paperwork
to his desk.

I was beginning to enjoy that thought
when I heard my name called.
“Allen,” the pretentious prick
of an executive editor said. “You’re lucky
we don’t kick your sorry ass outta here!
Maybe next time,” he laughed.
and the sycophants laughed along with him.

But I knew I was safe.
I knew where all the bodies were buried
and no no one else had the sources I had.

I looked around the newsroom,
smiled and wondered which one
of the faces I was gawking at
wouldn’t be there tomorrow.
I was about to start making my guesses
when I heard a faint beep
and a voice over my shoulder said,
“All right, Mr. Allen, we’re done.”
“Well, I’m not,” I thought.
But I had already opened my eyes

Man, that old newsroom was
twenty-four years in the past,
and that scene never happened.
Why’d I dream that up?

You know, you never know
why something pops up in a dream,
no matter what the dream studies say.
A car turns into a train with no
effect on the plot; sex with a beautiful woman
suddenly becomes a fight with a bear;
you lose your car in the parking lot
only to find it parked on the roof, ready to
fly you off to a new adventure.

Dreamscapes just happen.
Just like how my bones
All of a sudden, I seems,
Have just started aching with age.

 

 

My second book of poetry, “(more)’ is now available in Kindle and paperback editions.  Order your copy today!

KINDLE:

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

PAPERBACK:

http://www.amazon.com/more-David-G-Allen/dp/1501018930/ref=sr_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1411007090&sr=1-4&keywords=%28more%29+by+David+Allen

mailbox-package-16098367

       IN THE MAIL
       By David Allen

Fidgety,
he always found
it hard to keep still.
He had some kind of manic
adult attention deficit disorder,
racing around like some
multitasking, crazed old hipster
bebopping from one thing
to another,
unable to sit down
longer than a meal,
or slow down for the curves
life threw him.

So, when he died
his friends thought
it best to lay him to rest
by feeding him to the flames
and storing his ashes in a box
that is mailed back and forth
every month or so
between friends.

 

(more)

My second book of poetry, “(more)’ is now available in Kindle and paperback editions.  Order your copy today!

KINDLE:

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

PAPERBACK:

http://www.amazon.com/more-David-G-Allen/dp/1501018930/ref=sr_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1411007090&sr=1-4&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.

 

9-11 1

TYPHOON AND TERROR

At 11 p.m., abed in our Okinawa home,
my ringing phone shattered the silence.
“Turn your TV on!” a friend shouted when I answered.
“A big damn plane just hit the World Trade Center!”

Damned indeed.

As my love and I watched
CNN International over the rest
of the sleepless night,
we witnessed the second plane
plow into the towers,
ad saw reports of a third
smash into the Pentagon,
and a fourth crash into a Pennsylvania field,

Then the towers fell.

7,600 miles away, the night cloaked
our rain soaked cabin, as
Typhoon Nari sat 37 miles offshore,
threatening a third pass.
It struck once as a tropical storm
and then turned to wallop
the island with 113 mph winds
and 13 inches of rain, destroying
Okinawa’s sugar cane crop,
darkening 23,000 homes.

The next few days were a blur.
“Get reaction!” my editors
from Tokyo demanded.

I called Marines, soldiers, airmen, sailors,
civilian base workers for their thoughts.
I bugged commanders for troop movements,
increases in security. What would happen
when the bases, which cover a fifth of the island,
opened after the lockdown for the storm?

We all knew there’d be no return to normal.

“I cried,” a woman from New York,
who sold cars on the air base, said.
“I used to Swing Dance there every week
on the 108th floor at Windows on the World.
I can’t believe it. New York is my home
I always thought of it as indestructible.”

“I’m overcome with grief and anger,”
said a retired Marine married to an Okinawan.
He was preparing for Nari’s third strike
when he saw a Japanese TV report of the attacks.
“This is war. This is another Pearl Harbor.”

“What’s next, World War III?”
a percussionist for the Marine Band asked.
A corporal from New York, he said he
was about to be discharged and married.
“I cancelled both,” he said. “I can’t leave, not now.
It may sound crazy, but I can’t quit my country
with something like this going on.”

A soldier’s wife said she felt safe on Okinawa.
“Or at least I did until my husband instructed
us on how we have to be careful and wary
of any terrorist attacks.”

“I won’t be saying `Have a safe flight,’
so lightly anymore,” an Airman said.
No one, it turned out, would ever be
as free as we were on September 10th.

In South Korea, the military slapped
a ban on all off post travel.
On Okinawa, cars were no longer waived
through the gates if they had base decals.
Everyone had to show their IDs
and cars were randomly searched.

In the Plaza Housing Area
children opened a lemonade stand
to raise money for the rescue workers.

The air base commander announced
his units were, “Ready to take
the battle – the war – to the terrorists.”

“ Our lives changed dramatically
on the 11th of September,” he added.
“Get used to it!”

Some Okinawans, steeped in the islands’
spiritualist native religion, believed Nari
spared them froma terrorist attack.

Meanwhile, Navy ships departed from
Japanese ports and jets took off
for undisclosed locations.

And rumors started to spread.

Islamic militants had infiltrated into countries
throughout the Western Pacific, one Japanese paper reported.
“Well before Tuesday’s assault,” another printed,
“The United States informed the Japanese government
that terrorist action was anticipated.”

Reports from Macau, Hong Kong and Taiwan stated
Islamists were preparing attacks on U.S. targets.
On Sept. 8 in Manila, three men from Oman were detained
after they were seen in a hotel room videotaping
the nearby U.S. Embassy. They were released.
A later search of their room turned up traces of explosives.

There was a new feeling in the air –
Fear.
Anger.

Late one night I sat outside my cabin,
sipped a beer and gazed at the lights
of the harbor below, realizing nothing
would ever be quite the same.
I opened my journal and wrote:

      9/11

          Terrorists took
          Security away
          From Americans today.

          Now we’re as scared
          As a bus rider in Jerusalem,
          A shopkeeper in Derry,
          A banker in Basque,
          A Hindu in Kashmir,
          A Muslim in Serbia.

          Now, we’re all scared .
          Welcome to the terror-ble times.

    By David Allen

 

This is a new poem from my second book of poetry, “(more).”  

It  is now available on Amazon Kindle. The paperback edition should be available in two weeks. Order your copy today!

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

 

 

 

 

ANOTHER NIGHT

Posted: September 6, 2014 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , ,

David's Bar 2

ANOTHER NIGHT

Woke up on the couch
Again.
Head aches,
Stomach queasy,
Bladder bulging.
Sit up,
Sends my head spinning.
Man, what happened to my thumb?
Feels sprained must’ve jammed it.
How?
And what’s this?
Front of my shirt like cardboard,
Something wet dried.
Takes me three tries to stand,
Feel dizzy,
Stumble to the head.
Ahhhh, that feels good.
You know, you just kind of rent beer.
Wash my hands, look in the mirror —
Jeezus!
Right side of my temple’s all bruised,
Throbbing,
Nerves send a ditto from my right knee.
It’s all scraped and scabbed.
Must’ve fallen somewhere,
Somehow,
Sometime.
Don’t remember.
Re awakens, comes downstairs,
Tells me I crawled into the house
At 4:30 in the morning.
Kept shouting
“Leave me alone,
I don’t want you to see me
Like this. Go ‘way.”
She says something about a guzzling tequila
Contest with the last holdouts,
Trying to eat the worm.

Hours later,
Cleaning the mess on the porch
I find the worm.
Looks like I won.

 By David Allen

 

My second book of poetry, “(more)’ is now available on Amazon Kindle. The paperback edition should be available in two weeks. Order your copy today!

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.