Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category
I Am Waiting, Too
Posted: June 25, 2016 in PoetryTags: Age of Reason, coexist, David Allen, Ferlinghetti, peace, poem, poetry, poets, president, Social Security, Teabaggers, waiting
I AM WAITING, TOO
By David Allen
(With apologies to Lawrence Ferlinghetti)
I am waiting for my time to arrive
And I am waiting
For a renewed Age of Reason
And I am waiting for a woman
To be elected president
And drive the Teabaggers crazy
And I am waiting
For the world’s religious leaders
To agree to coexisit.
And I am waiting for the rich
To pay their fair share
And I am waiting for when
No child goes hungry
And I am waiting for the day
When the pen defeats the sword
And I am waiting for the time
Poets will be revered
As much as NFL quarterbacks
An I am waiting
For Social Security to be secure
And health care guaranteed
And I am waiting
For a renewed Age of Reason.
I am waiting for my ducks
To line up in a row
And I am waiting
For that one winning scratch off card
And I am waiting
For an early spring
And for fences to be mended
And potholes to be filled
And I am waiting
To hear Dylan live one more time
And I am waiting
For a cure for cancer
And an end to Monsanto food
And I am still waiting
For a renewed Age of Reason.
I am waiting
For the perfect cheeseburger
And I am waiting
For a time when being gay
Is no big deal.
And I am waiting
For my wife to admit
That I am funny
And can sing.
And I am waiting for the U.S.
To end being Cops of the World
And peace is given a real chance
And I am waiting
To regain my balance
And throw away my cane
And I remain waiting
For a new Age of Reason.
Whatif (Updated)
Posted: June 14, 2016 in PoetryTags: David Allen, god, golden years, inner voice, IRS, joy and sorrow, novel, poems, poetry, Shel Silverstein, Trump, type dancing, wake up, Whatif
WHATIF (Updated)
By David Allen
Last night, while I lay thinking here
Some Whatifs crawled inside my ear
And pranced and partied all night long
And sang their same old Whatif song:
Whatif I don’t wake tomorrow?
Whatif my joy’s less than my sorrow?
Whatif my novel remains unwrote?
Whatif Trump gets all the votes?
Whatif the IRS audits my return?
Whatif I forget what I’ve learned?
Whatif climate change is real?
Whatif I ate my last meal?
Whatif there really is no God?
Whatif there is and he’s a clod?
Whatif thinking was a crime?
Whatif my poems failed to rhyme?
Whatif I should arrive too late?
Whatif a psychic knows my fate?
Whatif my car should fail to start?
Whatif mowing strains my heart?
Whatif my inner voice goes mum?
Whatif I take up chewing gum?
Whatif my identity gets stolen?
Whatif my senior years aren’t golden?
Whatif a twister takes my house?
Whatif I die before my spouse?
What if my chocolate milk goes sour?
Whatif my computer loses power?
Whatif my basement floods again?
Whatif the ink dries up inside this pen?
And then I smiled and cleared my mind
And the whatifs fled, calling me unkind.
This was a challenge from the Last Stanza Poetry Association, which meets twice a month in Elwood, Indiana. We were to write a poem based on one of our favorites. I chose to update Shel Silverstein’s “Whatif,” which I used to read to my kids and grandkids.
WORDS
Posted: June 4, 2016 in PoetryTags: adjectivess, David Allen, nouns, painfully, poem, poetry, type dancing, verbs, vile visions, words
WORDS
By David Allen
Nameless nouns
Nod at the nuanced
Adjectives attracting
All the attention
Of the adverbs,
As the verbs ventilate
Their vile visions
Of the poems poured
Painfully from pens
The poet pressed
To the page.
Advice for Grads
Posted: May 22, 2016 in PoetryTags: advice, college, David Allen, graduation, journalism, piss and moan, poem, poetry, reporting, thicked skin, thin wallet, writing
Advice For College Grads
I
To new grads:
Don’t take any advice
Without a ton of salt
Especially from me.
II
So, you want to go
Into journalism?
Well, first grab
Your forearm.
Pinch it.
Then take out
Your wallet.
Feel it.
That’s your future
As a journalist.
You’ll have to be
Thick skinned and
Be satisfied with
A thin wallet.
III
It does no good
To piss and moan.
It’s better to just
Drink your beer
And piss.
SPRING HAIKUS
Posted: March 11, 2016 in PoetryTags: David Allen, flooded basement, flowers, Okinawa, poem, poetry, record temps, Spring, spring cleaning, warm weather
SPRING HAIKUS
By David Allen
Spring rain brings rebirth
Flowers, warmth and grassy lawns
My basement’s flooded
Wake up Smokey Bear
Exit your cave, spring is here
Fires must be doused
Warm weather’s returned
Let us walk by the river
“Take a hike!” he said
Time for spring cleaning
Purge clutter, tend the gardens
The hammock awaits
Spring break now begins
Southern beaches, sun and fun
Raising gas prices
Driving windows down
Feeling the warming spring air
Cost just an hour
MARCH MISCHIEF
Posted: March 5, 2016 in PoetryTags: David Allen, Japan, March, Okinawa, poem, poetry, rainy season, Spring, writing
March Mischief
By David Allen
The sun has returned,
the light’s too bright
after months of clouds.
We have lived through
several Februarys,
sun deprivation,
as the clouds and rain
dampened our spirits,
drugged us into
a somnambulistic shuffle,
merely marking the days,
the heatless hours,
cold nights in the subtropics.
Shivering, she screamed,
“Next year we winter in Guam!”
And headed undercover.
But now, all’s forgiven
as the sun warms us,
lulls us into shorts, bare feet,
ice cold beers in the afternoon,
lounging on the lawn
soaking in the rays,
building up the base
for nose blisters,
flaking foreheads.
All the while, Sol smiles
mischievously,
he knows the rainy season
is just weeks away.
……………………………………………………………………………………
The latest Indiana Voice Journal is out. Read your copy today!
http://www.indianavoicejournal.com/2016/03/poetry-passion-and-song-march-2016.html
UNIVERSE MUSIC
Posted: February 26, 2016 in PoetryTags: astronaut, cacaphonous, David Allen, Earth, far side of the moon, fear, moon, music, poem, poetry, racket, transmissions, universe, whistling, writing
UNIVERSE MUSIC
By David Allen
The music of the universe
called to the astronauts
and it scared them.
They were on the dark side of the moon,
which blocked the noises of Earth,
when the whistling began.
“You hear that?
That whistling sound?
Whoooo!”
One astronaut asked.
“Well, that sure is weird music,”
another answered.
“It sounds so spacey!”
Cue the X-Files theme.
The sound lasted for an hour,
then the spacecraft sighted Earth.
The astronauts gave relieved sighs
when the whistling was drowned out
by the multitudinous transmissions from Earth.
The astronauts decided to keep
the space music to themselves.
No one would have believed them, they reasoned.
And it could jeopardize future missions.
“Should we tell them about it?”
One asked his fellow spacemen.
“I think we should think about it,”
another answered.
And their story went untold
for more than four decades.
No one realized the music
was always there.
It was just blocked
by the cacophonous
racket from
Earth.
EXILE
Posted: February 21, 2016 in PoetryTags: assignments, David Allen, deadlines, editors, exile, news, newspapers, poems, poetry, reporting, retirement, writing
EXILE
by David Allen
It’s tough to live this life
With no deadlines,
No assignments from the desk,
No editors screaming in my ears,
No restaurants to review,
No typhoon, tornado or terrible
Earthquake to document.
No ambulances to chase,
No next of kin to interview,
No one’s story to tell;
Left with my own,
Worried it’s not interesting enough
To keep the reader’s attention.
The tomorrow’s tally up
And the to-do lists become tomes
Of unfinished business,
Unreachable goals.
This is uncharted territory
And I am lost.
Retirement?
Hell, this is
Exile.
BENNY’S BORN
Posted: February 7, 2016 in PoetryTags: baby, David Allen, dreams, fear, future, hope, newborn, poem, poetry, religion, writing
Benjamin David Garza, 12 Oct. 2004
BENNY’S BORN
By David Allen
I read the newspaper headlines
early this morning
and wanted to go back to sleep.
My nightmares
are not as crazy
as this waking world.
But then I remembered
my grandson was to be born
this day and, as I dressed
and drove to the hospital,
I despaired.
A cold fog had settled
on the gray Indiana town,
seeming to smother the present,
as my mind clouded
with the news smog
that cloaked the future.
I feared for my grandson.
What kind of weary, warring world
was he inheriting?
However, not much later,
gingerly holding my hour-old
Grandson in my arms,
I saw him smile for what
may have been the very
first time, a sign of pleasure
at the sense of touch.
And, knowing that he had no debts,
no prejudices, no knowledge of religion,
and that hate had yet to find him,
I wondered –
Is there yet hope for us?
Type Dancing 