Archive for October, 2019

Old Age

Posted: October 12, 2019 in Poetry
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(Stock Image)

OLD AGE
By David Allen

Bent posture
Grouchy nature
Prescription pill bottles
Wild walking waddles.

Memory lapses
Cheap reading glasses
Hair shedding
Tummy spreading.

Cane walking
Unsteady talking
Teeth in a glass
Passing much gas.

Spinal hardware
Keys are not there
Midnight pee calls
Numbing pratfalls.

Artery stents
Obscene vents
Diner discounts
Joint bank accounts.

Skin splotches
Year’s end notches
TV bingeing
X-ray cringing.

Children have grown
Remortgaged home
Much makes me enraged
This must be old age. 

Words Gone

Posted: October 11, 2019 in Poetry
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Words Gone
By David Allen

The words were gone.
The poet sulked at his desk,
staring at the blank computer screen.
His Muse stood beside him,
sobbing while she stroked his neck.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” she said.
“I want to help you, but the words won’t come.
This is more than a simple writer’s block.
It’s more like the words absconded with the images,
the ideas are idle, blurry concepts just beyond reach.
I have failed you.”

“Don’t say that,” the Poet said, 
turning to face his Muse.
“It’s not your fault.”
“It is,” she said. 
“There’s too much darkness.
Too many things are piling up.
The words are suffocating under 
the heap of today’s failures
and tomorrow’s fears.
I’m just not good for you.”
She turned and ran from the room.

The Poet muttered a few “damns” under his breath.
He wondered awhile whether to follow her.
Should he scrap the play
or go on to Act 2? 
After a painfully slow minute,
he shook his head, then rose and left the room.

He climbed the stairs to their bedroom.
She sat cross-legged on the bed, 
a pen in her right hand and a notepad on her lap.

“Look, I’m so…” he started.
But she cut him off, looking up,
Sadness and defeat contorted her face.
“So, did you come upstairs 
To edit my suicide note?” she asked.

He walked to her side and kissed her cheek.
“No, just checking to make sure 
you have no knives or pills up here,” he said.
His Muse’s frown turned into a slight smile.
“I just wish I was better at this,” she said.
“You are,” the Poet said as he left the room.

A few minutes later, he was back at the computer
typing slowly as a poem formed on the screen. 

 

Bird Nest

Posted: October 3, 2019 in Poetry
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BIRD NEST
By David Allen

I gave my love a bird’s nest
that I found while mowing
and she marveled and cooed,
“It must have been built
by a mourning dove.”
She examined it carefully,
noting that embedded
in the twigs and grass
was a toothpick.
I wondered where it came from
and how long it lain abandoned?
And why did the bird choose
to use it when more pliable twigs
would be better suited
for her construction project?

Woody

Posted: October 1, 2019 in Poetry
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WOODY
By David Allen

Woody’s been sitting there
for quite some time now.
Centuries have passed.
He’s rooted to a spot
at the edge of the woods,
where he observes the progress
and, sadly, the eventual regress
of the humans in the valley below.
“Why don’t they find their roots
and settle down?” he muses.
“They never stay long enough
to get into the sync of the living earth.”