IT’S TIME TO LEAVE
By David Allen
Hickory, dickory, dock
the hands crawl ‘round the clock.
Time’s face is spaced,
my mind’s erased,
my plans suitcased
and locked.
I thought I heard you calling,
but I turned and was alone.
I began to feel a yearning
for some distant place called home.
But home is just an idea
that I made up in my head
and you are just the memory
of a path I used to tread.
So, with the rising of the sun
I’ll be going, I’ll be gone
it’s off to new adventure’s I am bound.
Off to see the sights,
feel the depths, climb the heights,
it’s time that I be moving
got unbound.
I looked into a mirror
and a face asked, “Who are you?”
A strong hand held the scissors,
the haircut short and new.
The old me’s sleeping somewhere,
while the new one’s taking leave,
he’s turned his back on yesterday
with new tricks up his sleeve.
To all my old friends,
I bid fare you well,
I can’t complain
you did all right by me.
To all my future friends
I shout, “Here I come!”
To get roaring drunk and stoned
and just to be.
Tired thumb out to hitchhike,
rides fly by it looks like
I’m being passed over again.
The sky is getting cloud dark,
in the distance a dog’s bark,
my upturned collar can’t keep out the wind.
So, Goodbye to Long Island,
the Home of the Strange,
goodbye to the good times of the past.
Goodbye to the loves
that I once pursued.
It’s a shock to find
forever never lasts.
I wished that there was something
that you would say or do,
but I guess the one for giving
would be anyone but you.
The reasons for my going
still aren’t very clear to me,
but with no excuse for staying
I could do nothing but leave
NOTE: I wrote this poem in 1972, a 24-year old on my way to Washington, D.C to do some full-time anti-war work after graduating from college. I still like it.
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 david@davidallen.nu. Order your copy today! I am like most poets — poor.
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.
Type Dancing 