Archive for July, 2015


Posted: July 29, 2015 in Poetry
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By David Allen

1 a.m.
You say our love
has stopped growing
it’s slowing,
at first, but now
you can feel it still

I say our love
is still reaching,
still teaching,
still preaching,
it’s that unquenched,
undying, unkilled

2 a.m.
Early in the morning
upstairs you sleep
and dream the dreams
you rarely remember.

Downstairs I write
right through the night
and ponder our love’s

3 a.m.
Asleep, I dream
that I’m asleep
in your arms,
a sleep that’s deep,
and as I dream
I smile, asleep
and loved, I dream
I’m safe asleep.

4 .m.
I sit here writing,
wondering what’s to be.
Why can’t we save this marriage
if I love you and you love me?

                                                 Fort Wayne, 1988

 (Note, In January we will have been married 27 years.) 


(god) DAMMIT
By David Allen

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?


Posted: July 1, 2015 in Poetry


Poet Michael DeVito, a former Marine, belts one out at the Club Red


I am still trying
to figure out what
Sesame Street is
all about, playing
on the TV screens
over the bar.
Last time I wandered
in here there were
young college co-eds 
showing their titties
at some X-rated Spring Break.
Now I watch
Conjunction Junction
and figure, hell,
both videos make some
kind of perverted sense
at Open Mike poetry night
at the Club Red.
                                        November, 2003
                                        Okinawa, Japan

Note: During the late ’90s and early ’00s, I was a part of the Eat Write Cafe and Traveling Poets Society on Okinawa. We were a bunch of poets, civilian and military, who met at local bars and held Open Mic nights. Everyone was welcome. The reception was amazing. Sometimes a Marine or Airman sitting at the bar who had come in just to drink would pick up a pen, write something on a napkin and join the fray. And it was like a fight night. Poets who had already read would hang out in the back of the room pacing back and forth, like punch drunk boxers, waiting for another round. And afterwards, we would would sometimes gather at my house on Camp Foster to rant, read and drink until the sun came up.