Archive for December, 2015


Posted: December 19, 2015 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , ,



By David Allen
I am becoming
Less patient
With patience.
The promised rewards
Are not forthcoming
As advertised.
I am reaching an age
Where they say patience
Is natural and, naturally,
I am impatient
To find mine.
They say patience
Is a virtue and I find
I virtually have
Little left these days.
And so I sit, sip a beer
And wait impatiently
For something
To happen.


By David Allen

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year
Hannukah, too, this is my Holiday poem
For you.
Let’s remember this December
Other reasons exist
To wish a Festivus for the rest of us,
No matter your bliss.
And, speaking of bliss,
This season marks when
Buddha found his.
Now, isn’t that Zen?
And shouldn’t we add Saturnalia
To this season’s list?
After all, that old Roman holiday
Was the start of all this.
For, one week in December
The Romans gave a big bash
Where everything was permitted,
Like “The Purge,” with thousands cast,
To get drunk, damage property,
Injure strangers and friends
Historians someday will tell us
That’s where “Black Friday” begins.
The holiday was so popular
Early Catholics stole the date
To lure pagans to their churches
So they could seal their fate.
“But the War on Christmas is upon us,”
The Faux News anchors scream,
But look not only to Humanists
For raising their spleen.
Hardcore Christians, the Puritans
Once took up the torch
To ban Christmas hokum
No day for their church.
The reason for the season
To me is just this –
Another year’s over
And we are still here
That’s a reason to party
To throw off our fears
To count all our blessings,
Whatever that’s worth,
Because we haven’t yet
Killed our Mother Earth.


Diving in the rain 2

           By David Allen

The argument made no sense
The words were hard and harsh
So, I grabbed my keys and headed for my car.
The “I Love Yous,” were thrown
But they were not caught
As I drove from the home of despair.
The sun had set, clouds ruled the sky
And rain started at the first stop sign.
The radio was broken, so I sang to myself
As I turned onto a narrow country lane.
The windshield wipers kept time
As dark thoughts filled the air
Until I opened the window and
Skyward they were blown.
I drove for hours, turning again and again
As if to throw off the weight of despair
The car’s dashboard console went dark
Wiping out my GPS, and so it wasn’t long
Before I was good and lost.
The rain poured in the open window
Cold but somehow refreshing
I drove aimlessly on, meditating
On how things were and used to be.
The longer I drove, the more my heavy heart eased.
Refreshed, I decided to find a way back home
Just as the country lane met a major interchange
And a sign pointed me on my way.
But the closer I got, the darker the sky
And my mood again weighed heavy
I passed my street and drove on
Promising to return when the dawn breaks
To shine a light on what went wrong.


Looking for a great Christmas present? Why not give a book of poetry? 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.


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.



By David Allen

          So, this guy came up to me the other day and said, “Say, fella, your face looks familiar. Aren’t you…?”  Whereupon I stepped up to him in his mid-sentence, he being a good two or three yards away and still making his approach, and said, “Sure am! Great to see you! Got any spare change?”

            He looked at me for a moment, puzzled, and reached into his pants pocket and pulled out four quarters. I grabbed them before he could change his mind.

            “For a dollar I’ll be anybody you want,” I told him. “Who do you want me to be?” He tried to answer, but the words got all confused on the way from his brain to his mouth and he sounded like he had a fit coming on. Finally, after a few garbled goos and gaas, he said he must be mistaken. I told him that I must be mistaken, too, on account of how much I really wanted to be who he thought I was.

            He ran away before I could ask him to try me out for a while and see how well I would do until the real thing came along. He seemed disappointed and scared. I guess I came on too intense. No wonder I had been standing at the bus stop by myself.

            I had enough money to escape from the city, anyway, so I was relieved I didn’t have to be someone else for awhile. It’s tiring to be someone else all the time. Taking on false identities doesn’t really help me sort out in my mind all the characters I had been in the past, or all the parts I had yet to play. 

          Strange things are happening. It’s as if my spirit is dancing to a jazz existentialist revival. Few people seem real to me. I have a hard time relating to people in any kind of rational way. I react much more favorably to trees. My mind races faster than I can orally express my thoughts and I usually stand alone and speechless. The city has become a movie set. Ah, if only I could sneak around the cardboard façade and drink T-bird wine with the stage crew. This lighting is all wrong. I forgot my lines and I am afraid this character will never develop. I left the script in a knapsack in the country months ago and I haven’t been able to return. I don’t even know why I try anymore.  

            I boarded the next bus for Seven Corners, giving a cheery “good morning” to the driver and watching myself in the rearview mirror as the change clinked and fed his fare machine.

          The bus was sparsely occupied, but in a middle seat my gaze fastened on an old lady sitting by herself. She seemed attached to a huge alligator handbag on her broad lap. The bag had a baby alligator head attached to it and, to look at the thing, he had more life in him than the fossil holding the bag.  

          I was so drawn to the gator head, which looked just like the one I wore around my neck during my stretch in the Navy’s Gator Fleet, that I sat down next to him. It must’ve freaked the old lady out, seeing as there were plenty of empty seats. But she didn’t say anything. She stared ahead and didn’t let on a bit. Occasionally she turned her head slightly to peek at me, but I just smiled. Then she’d turn away and stare into space, frowning. I stared at the head, smiling and desperately trying to communicate with the gator crouched on her lap.

           It seemed alive, beckoning me. I couldn’t look away. You see, I knew he had a lot of answers to the endless questions that plagued me. That is, if he wanted to. He continued to draw my attention and the old lady, who was cadaverously pale, kept catching me staring at her lap. Did she think I was going to steal her purse? Or were her thoughts more Freudian?

          The gator wasn’t talking. And as I stared at him, careful now not to be caught by the woman’s death-grey eyes, he started to smile. The damn gator was smiling at me. He was laughing because he knew I didn’t know and knew he knew that I didn’t know. Shades of sailor knots and R.D. Laing.

          My stop was many miles back and I began to worry that the gator would not talk to me until it was too late – until the bus had circled back to where it picked me up. He continued to smile. I grew furious. Why should he know and not tell me? My hand, of its own volition started to stalk the head. I couldn’t stop it. The hand was going to choke the alligator to death and there was nothing I could do. I watched in mute horror.

         The hand crept. My face froze in a smile of terror. The corpse frowned. The gator knew.

         The bus droned down the highway. At any moment I knew the hand would strangle the gator, the woman would scream and I would be held responsible. At any moment I would murder a dead baby alligator head and would be caught (at least I knew that part). There seemed to be nothing I could do to prevent it.

          Then, like a faint wind nipping at the nape of my neck, someone whispered, “Say, fella, aren’t you…?” I hadn’t seen anyone else near me on the bus and I wasn’t going to confront whoever it was. I quickly got up from the seat and, without checking to see who spoke or whether he had some spare change, I yelled, “I was, but ain’t no more! The alligator and the dead old lady took him away!” I ran off the bus, barely noticing the collection box continued to churn quarters.

         I gave up trying to make it to my friend’s farm. You can’t be too careful about going to the country, you know.