Archive for October, 2014


By David Allen

For me, the scariest
Part of Halloween
Comes in mid-September
When the stores start selling
Candy and costumes
And tombstones start cropping
Up on my neighbors’ lawns.
It’s like the country’s gone ghoulish
In a big way.
It wasn’t like this when I was young.
The earliest the carved pumpkins
Showed up on doorsteps
Was two weeks in advance.
There were no ghosts and bats
Swinging from tree limbs.
The scariest decoration I remember
Was a huge stringy spiderweb
Outside the housing project’s
Community Center the night
Of the Halloween Party,
Where a plastic spider might be floating
In the pail where we bobbed for apples.
The night before Halloween
– Mischief Night –
Now, that was scary for the residents of
Our suburban town;
Eggs smashed on car windows,
Blazing dog poop bags on doorsteps,
Nair cream in water balloons
But nothing back then came as close
As the body I saw swinging from a tree
Last night over on the next block,
Or the stuffed Grim Reaper
Holding a bloody head and standing
Next to a neighbor’s garage.
I swear, these scenes are more
Intricate than those Christmas displays
That show up the first week of November.

And, yeah, that scares me, too.


My second book of poetry, “(more)’ is now available on Amazon Kindle. The paperback edition is also available. If you want a signed copy, email me at Order your copy today! I am like most poets — poor.




Posted: October 27, 2014 in Poetry
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Misplaced Fear


Posted: October 25, 2014 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , ,


By David Allen

Want to know what scares me?
Running out of ink when inspiration strikes
Blank paper
Complaining to my wife when she’s off her meds
Being stranded in a doctor’s examination room
Buying gas on the weekend
Forgetting birthdays
Having a birthday
Running out of crossword puzzles in the bathroom
Running out of toilet paper
Getting a phone call from my bank
Getting late night phones call from my children
Going with my wife to a church rummage sale
Stepping on a scale
Looking in a mirror first thing in the morning
Looking at my hair after a nap
Being late for anything
Forgetting a word
Forgetting someone’s name
Balancing my checkbook
Not having a deadline
Shopping for groceries
Credit scores
Visiting a trailer park during a tornado watch
My wife asking me if new pants make her look fat
Having to run away
My cable TV bill
My cell phone bill
Finding hair on my brush
Pizza from Pizza King
Brussels sprouts
A plain bagel
Pea soup
Highway rotaries
Barber shops
My wife’s silence when I create a pun
My wife’s silence when I crack a joke
My wife’s silence
Silence from the voice in my head
Armed Teabaggers
Donald Trump’s hair
Insurance salesmen
Anderson, Indiana
V-neck sweaters
Swimming without a shirt
Radical Muslims
Radical Christians
Radical Jews
Radical Hindus
Radical Atheists
Running out of chocolate
Empty bookcases
My garage
My wife’s shoe closet
Riding in a car as a passenger
Funeral parlors
GPS voices
Prescription drug commercials
Guam’s kamikaze crows
Palm readers
Fortune cookies

Explaining the meaning of my poems


Sunset, Okinawa Japan , Dec. 31, 1999.

By David Allen

At the turn of the century
my love and I watched the sun set
one last time and marveled
at the cloud formation that
appeared as a giant anvil.
I wondered then if it was a sign
announcing the last century’s swords
were to be beaten into plowshares,
greeting an age of peace.

Now, some 15 years later,
I know the answer.
The anvil was to shape
even more swords
for what is becoming
a century of endless conflict.

My second book of poetry, “(more)’ is now available on Amazon Kindle. The paperback edition is also available. If you want a signed copy, email me at Order your copy today! I am like most poets — poor.


By David Allen

Sharing stories with poet friends
Topics taken by rolls of the dice
(If you didn’t like the first, you got to roll twice.)
Some tales met with gasps, others with grins.

Pat witnessed an alien craft
Light up the Midwest night sky
Later suspecting meteor reports were lies.

Joyce’s dad lost a finger to a circular saw
Judy saw a red pirate ship sitting offshore.

Tom delivered meals on Thanksgiving Day
Jenny almost died from morphine taken to chase pain away.

Cathy’s first kiss from a slobbering boy
Put an end to thinking love would be a joy.

Linda’s college rooms were painted wild colors
Turquoise, blue, and green walls clashed with each other.

Judy’s big night pout was a Nutcracker affair
Jenny’s drug store sold liquor and comic book fare.

Joyce remembered a drunk knocking down all the pins
Pat shoveled walks and cut grass to fill his book bins.

Judy’s dry cleaner’s hot air beckoned the bees
Jenny’s waitress job made her toes bleed.

Jenny’s brother cut down a tree, pocketing Christmas money
Pat brought a man purse from Europe and people looked at him funny.

Cathy’s band placed first in the entire state
But bringing up the rear was the majorettes’ fate.

Linda’s favorite item at the Indy drug store
Was raspberry sherbert, she always wanted more.

Pat’s dad found huge wooden type to declare JFK was dead
Cathy’s practical joke was to season sweet potato doughnuts with pepper instead.

Tom partied and danced at a Grateful Dead concert
Where a pretty girl yakked despite the “Shut Up and Dance” shirt.

Joyce shyly sand in her church choir
Pat’s art class dance set a teacher on fire.

Linda thought being banned from her daughter’s medical exam was jive
Cathy remembered a family split when she was just five.

And me, I told several stories from my wayward life
Cross country driving, divorcing my wife,
Jumping from a plane for a story, but missing the shot
VW broke down outside Barstow, the desert was too hot.

(NOTE: This was a poem challenge for the Last Stanza Poetry Association)



By David Allen

Waiting 15 Minutes

This time it’s waiting
For the ortho doc
To tell me the MRI shows
What I already know.
And there’s not much
That can be done.
So, why am I here?
He has the power of the pills
That I will swill when the pain
Becomes too much to bear.
So, here I sit and contemplate.
What pain reliever this time
Will be my fate?

Waiting 20 Minutes

Waiting in the examination room
For 20 minutes reminds me
Of days covering boring trials
When I was a newspaper reporter.
I wrote poems to while the time away.
The poems are coming!
The poems are coming!
So what if the doc is taking his time?
My brain is full of ink.

Waiting 25 minutes

It’s amazing how I have
Absolutely no pain now that
I am waiting for the ortho doc
To come and tell me
What bad shape I’m in.

Waiting 30 minutes

Does anyone know
I am here?
It’s been 30 minutes
And I fear
The ortho doc
Is on an extended
Coffee break
And his staff
Mistakenly filed
My chart away.

Waiting 35 minutes

Knock Knock
Who’s there?
I am.
It’s been 35 minutes
Since the nice nurse
Said you’d be right with me.
This is not right
With me.

Waiting 40 minutes

There’s the sound of laughter
In the hallway outside this room.
Does it mean the ortho doc
Will soon appear?
Is there something in my chart
Amusing him?
Is this terrible waiting
Some initiation prank
For the new patient?
Must not be.
I hear the footsteps
Fading away.
So, I wait.

Waiting 45 minutes

Well, that was quick.
After 45 minutes of waiting
The ortho doc spent 7 minutes
Showing me the MRI pictures
And explaining how bad
My spine was screwed up,
And that I need to see a neurosurgeon
Who will stick needles in me
To assess what to do next.

I await in dulled

'Mister Wilcox! Back in the little room! You haven't waited nervous and half naked the required 50 minutes for the doctor to see you.'


My second book of poetry, “(more)” is now available on Amazon Kindle with a special 99 cent introductory offer. Buy now before the price goes up! The paperback edition is also available. Hell, I’ll even send you a signed copy for just $15 if you just message me at

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.



banana spider1

By David Allen

The big black hairy spider
Crawled up the water spout
Then she jumped up to a tree limb
Spinning her silk thread out
And before the day was over
Her silver cobweb was done
And the flies and other insects
Were caught in the web she spun.

But the spiders’ work of art
Are more than insect traps
Okinawans say banana spiders
Can the weather forecast
Giant cobwebs spun low
Mean typhoon winds will blow
And the silken strands spun high
Foretell calm and clear blue skies.

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!

MISC PIX 2 002

By David Allen

Now, there’s a word abused,
Misunderstood and misused
By the Far Left, the Far Right,
The loose cannons, the uptight,
The free spirits, the lost souls,
The imprisoned, the paroled,
The enlightened, the dimwitted,
Those without, those with it,

During July 4th fireworks
The patriotic jerks
Use the word without thought
“Support those who fought
For our freedom!” they scream
But no war in decades, it seems,
Was fought to preserve
Their Freedomland dreams.

Yes, we’re the Cops of the World
And as that freedom word’s hurled,
As we awesomely attack,
I am taken aback.
Are we bringing them democracy,
Or some new tyrant’s monstrosity?
Are we trading our children for oil,
Sending them to die on foreign soil,
While the rich pad their bank accounts
And our Middle Class fails to surmount
The inflated hills of credit card bills?

Freedom, yeah I wish I was free
From phone taps and cameras that shadow me,
From the x-rays and pat downs at airline gates,
From small-minded leaders preaching hate.
They say, “Freedom’s not free,” and that’s no lie,
It cost all of us much, the price is high.
You see, the freedom we have in the USA
Costs the freedom we’re willing to give away.

If you liked this, buy my new book:

For signed copies, contact me at