Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

My Father Played the Mandolin

MANDOLIN THERAPY

My father plays the mandolin
when life begins to close him in;
playing old folk tunes and country airs,
music helps to soothe his cares
and ease his life.

And he plays,
when the need for drink
clouds his brain
and he can’t think.

He plays,
when the bills are high
and cash is low
when my mother cries.

He plays,
into the night
but it never seems
to come out right.

He plays the mandolin
when life begins to close him in.

He plays.

BY David Allen

This is an early Fathers’s Day Poem. My dad was a WWII veteran who never fully recovered from combat. He was incredibly talented — a football hero at Manhasset High School, a cartoonist, a comedian, a musician — but he was also an alcoholic most of his life. After he gained sobriety when he was 43 years old, he became hooked on pills to treat his post traumatic stress disorder (which they didn’t call it back in the mid 60s). He died in 1992. (A poem about that will follow next month.) We were never really close. I was short, non-athletic, bookish and disobedient and he was disappointed with me. I was the oldest of seven children and ran away a lot.

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A WRITER AFRAID OF HIS PEN

Look at him sitting there
contemplating rhyme,
stretching the time, feeling
there’s another change
left in his repertoire of life.
He doesn’t realize the fears
which force the doubt upon
his tortured mind, again
and again, making him
abandon plotted paths
for the impulse trail,
dropping the pen in favor
of reading a book,
raiding the fridge,
or going for a long drive,
is insecurity, a shadowy
stranger who seeks to make
new friends with the neurotic
at the short end of the stick.
He calls it writer’s block,
but who is he trying to fool?
He is afraid of the one tool,
the one gift, which could
make it all worthwhile,
choosing, instead, to run away
never testing the tool to
see if it works.

By David Allen

CLOSING NIGHT

Posted: May 19, 2014 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , ,

davidread

CLOSING NIGHT

Goodnight
the darkness closes in
as the theater spills its patrons
into the street.
The last act is finished,
the curtain is down,
no fanfare,
no standing ovation,
mild applause.
The reviews, save the one
from the underground rag,
were all bad.

The players will look
for new work in the morning.
The theater will house
a new playwright’s child.

I leave meekly out the stage entrance
into the alley —
always the alley —
overflowing garbage cans
stray cats
stench of vomit.

You join the crowd
push your way out into the street,
with its bright lights, laughter
smell of hot pretzels,
carnival air.

The crowd moves past the alley
where my unnoticed shadow climbs
a fire escape to a small
cluttered room
to study far into the morning,
reviewing the mistakes
of my past performance,
practicing my new lines.

By David Allen

I spent the afternoon mowing grass today. Reminded me of the lovely Zen gardens in Japan.

Rock garden 3

Rock GArden 1

HORTICULTURE HAIKU

Calming rock gardens
So popular in Japan
No damn grass to mow

by David Allen

The 9-11 Museum is opening at Ground Zero in New York City. Here’s a poem I wrote about the Day the World Changed.
9-11 Museum 2

9-11 Museum 4

THE DAY THE WORLD CHANGED

At 11 p.m., abed in our Okinawa home,
My ringing phone shattered the silence.
“Turn your TV on!” a friend shouted when I answered.
“A big damn plane just hit the World Trade Center!”

Damned indeed.

As my love and I watched
CNN International over the rest
Of the sleepless night,
We witnessed the second plane
Plow into the towers,
And saw reports of a third
Smash into the Pentagon,
And a fourth crash into a Pennsylvania field,

Then the towers fell.

7,600 miles away, the night cloaked
Our rain soaked cabin, as
Typhoon Nari sat 37 miles offshore,
Threatening a third pass.
It struck once as a tropical storm
And then turned to wallop
The island with 113 mph winds
And 13 inches of rain, destroying
Okinawa’s sugar cane crop,
Darkening 23,000 homes.

The next few days were a blur.
“Get reaction!” my editors
From Tokyo demanded.

I called Marines, soldiers, airmen, sailors,
Civilian base workers for their thoughts.
I bugged commanders for troop movements,
Increases in security. What would happen
When the bases, which cover a fifth of the island,
Opened after the lockdown for the storm?

We all knew there’d be no return to normal.

“I cried,” a woman from New York,
Who sold cars on the air base, said.
“I used to Swing Dance there every week
On the 108th floor at Windows on the World.
I can’t believe it. New York is my home
I always thought of it as indestructible.”

“I’m overcome with grief and anger,”
Said a retired Marine married to an Okinawan.
He was preparing for Nari’s third strike
When he saw a Japanese TV report of the attacks.
“This is war. This is another Pearl Harbor.”

“What’s next, World War III?”
A percussionist for the Marine Band asked.
A corporal from New York, he said he
Was about to be discharged and married.
“I cancelled both,” he said. “I can’t leave, not now.
It may sound crazy, but I can’t quit my country
With something like this going on.”

A soldier’s wife said she felt safe on Okinawa
“Or at least I did until my husband instructed
Us on how we have to be careful and wary
Of any terrorist attacks.”

“I won’t be saying `Have a safe flight,’
So lightly anymore,” an Airman said.
No one, it turned out, would ever be
As free as we were on September 10th.

In South Korea the military slapped
A ban on all off post travel.
On Okinawa cars were no longer waived
Through the gates if they had base decals.
Everyone had to show their IDs
And cars were randomly searched.

In the Plaza Housing Area
Children opened a lemonade stand
To raise money for the rescue workers.

The air base commander announced
His units were, “Ready to take
The battle – the war – to the terrorists.”
“ Our lives changed dramatically
On the 11th of September,” he added.
“Get used to it!”

Some Okinawans, steeped in the islands’
Spiritualist native religion, believed Nari
Spared them from the terrorists.

In the next few days, Navy ships
Departed from Japanese ports
And jets took off for undisclosed locations.

And rumors started to spread.

Islamic militants had infiltrated into countries
Throughout the Western Pacific, one Japanese paper reported.
“Well before Tuesday’s assault,” another printed,
“The United States informed the Japanese government
That terrorist action was anticipated.”

Reports from Macau, Hong Kong and Taiwan stated
Islamists were preparing attacks on U.S. targets.
On Sept. 8 in Manila, three men from Oman were detained
After they were seen in a hotel room videotaping
The nearby U.S. Embassy. They were released.
A later search of their room turned up traces of explosives.

There was a new feeling in the air –
Fear.
Anger.

Late one night I sat outside my cabin,
Sipped a beer and gazed at the lights
Of the harbor below, realizing nothing
Would ever be quite the same.
I opened my journal and wrote:

Terrorists took
Security away
From Americans today.

Now we’re as scared
As a bus rider in Jerusalem,
A shopkeeper in Derry,
A banker in Basque,
A Hindu in Kashmir,
A Muslim in Serbia.

Now, we’re all scared .
Welcome to the terror-ble times.

By David Allen

Barney and Clyde

ODE TO A JUNKER

Hello Truck,
Gee, I’m sorry it’s so cold.
Hello poor engine,
I’m sorry you’re so old.
It’s a shame to see you out like this,
You’re dying without hope.
I’d buy you all the things you need,
But I’m broke.

Hello fan,
I’ll get you a new belt someday.
Hello fuel pump,
I’ll try to help some way.
While I know this screw won’t fit you,
I guess it will have to do,
‘Cause my unemployment check
Is overdue.

Hello tranny,
Someday I’ll get you overhauled.
Hello tires,
I’m sorry you’re so bald.
Those big deep thread you once had
Are just a memory.
One day you’ll wear chrome hubcaps
Just wait and see.

Do you remember
The days when you were great?
Gobbling up the miles
At a terrific rate?
But rust has eaten at your body
And your mirrors are all cracked,
Like the fender dents you suffered
When sidewhacked.

So here you sit,
Out back behind the garage.
A junker stripped,
Marred by a bird poop barrage.
Sometimes I sit in your front seat
And relive our glory days,
As tears track down my cheeks
For how we’ve aged.

I’m raggedy, too,
As you can plainly see.
I’ve slowed my gait
Due to an arthritic knee.
We’ve both seen too many miles
Our day has finally come.
Well, I guess I’ll die here with you
My old chum.

By David Allen
(Written to an old Country and Western tune)

Another Mothers Day Poem

Mom and grandkids

Doris Allen and her three Hoosier grandkids, Fort Wayne, IN, 1987.

FOR OUR MOTHERS

Sometimes when we move far away
We are able to see more clear
The people and places that molded us,
It’s as if they were right here.
And as we examine the days now past,
We are finding this simple truth –
Without our loving mothers’ arms
We would not have survived our youth.

By David Allen

ANOTHER MOTHERS DAY POEM

Me and Mom 1949

Me and Mom, Charleston, S.C., 1948.

THE DAY MOM DIED

The day Mom died
My doorbell rang
Twice, two times in
The afternoon.

But when I bound from my chair
There was no one there,
Or anywhere near,
As I scanned the scene
For signs of a prank or the post.

After the second signal
I tested the bell for a short
Or some other cause.
But it worked just fine,
No gust or glitch had
Had set it abuzz.

Hours later I got the word
Mom departed this cold world.

My wife suggested
Mom stopped by our island,
Which swarms with ghosts,
To say goodbye to her oldest son,
One child absent from the last bedside.
And I just shrugged,
And would still, except —

The day they turned our Mom to ash
The doorbell rang again.
And her grandson answered only to find
No one waiting to come in.

And in the months that followed,
The doorbell never repeated its
Eerie ring, sounding only
To announce a package delivered
Or a neighbor stopping to say “Hi.”

I guess Mom said her final goodbye.

By David Allen
Okinawa, Japan

Mom and Me 1948
Me and my Mom, Charleston, S.C., 1948

I NEVER WROTE A POEM ABOUT MY MOTHER

I never wrote a poem
about my mother,
even though dozens about dad
flowed from pens filled
with ink blood red.
After all, he planted the seeds
of fear and hopelessness, deep
strong roots grown in furrows
slashed into pliant flesh
by belts stinging,
quick backhands,
cutting words, while
mom protested in silence,
condoning the conditioning years
later saying —
“But afterwards he always cried.”

I never wrote a poem for my mother,
though I love her and think fondly
of the bond we formed in later years.
What was there to write?
I tried to protect her once.
I was nine and my Dad, drunk again,
had raised his hand one too many times
and, as he stumbled from the house,
my mom damning him to the fiery pit,
I chased him down the steps,
swatting his back with the brush
end of a broom;
trying to sweep him from our lives,
I suppose, though he’s here still
long after buried in a veteran’s grave.

I never wrote a poem about my mother,
she kept us together, somehow,
through all those years,
For what I never understood.
I relished the times I was farmed
out to uncles, aunts and my
Nan Nan’s strong, protecting arms.

I never wrote a poem about my mother
who never told me what to be,
just follow the rules
as muddled as they are,
“Stay out of trouble, David
or you’ll anger you father.”
He was so quick to anger,
haunted by war ghosts
and failures too numerous to name;
a dozen jobs, a dozen homes,
a dozen shattered promises.
I stood with her often on the welfare lines,
bringing home the state dole of
oily peanut butter in gallon cans,
powdered milk, cornmeal
and the white beans that gagged me
every time.

I never wrote a poem for my mother,
though she saved me once by moving us
to another county when
the streets beckoned and threatened
to steal the soul of her oldest son.
She never said why we moved
and I always assumed it was to hide
from the collection agents who came
round to our door as often
as the milkman and the mail.

I never wrote a poem to my mother,
who behind the scenes later
cut the strings, let me
find my own way, any way
that was better than
the stifling daily struggle
she suffered alone with seven
children and failing health.

I never wrote a poem about my mother
who stoically now in her Golden Years,
a widow, children grown, has finally
allowed herself to live her own life,
with no regrets, no sighs of could-have-beens,
but says, “That’s just the way things were
and I did the best I could.”

I never wrote a poem for my mother
who never taught me to hug,
or love, but managed still
to make sure we always had food
and clothes and a bed,
where in dreams I escaped
the dread of the Dad-filled days
until I was strong enough to run.

I never wrote a poem for my mother
and still I wonder why?

By David Allen
The first of several poems for Mothers’ Day weekend

BIRTHDAY BATTLE

Posted: May 8, 2014 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , ,

clydea - Copy
Years Ago

BIRTHDAY BATTLE

Sand falls,
Watch hands beckon,
A shadow creeps.
Time is skewering us all
To the wall.
To the wall boys!
To the wall!
Man the ramparts!
Sound the alarm!
Push them back!
Stop time!
Aaiiiiiieeeee!!!!
It’s no use!
Fall back! Fall back!
Hair recedes, grays.
Eyes, myopic, bag.
Arches fall,
Posture slouches.
Oh, the horror, the horror!
The….

(Ah, forget about it,
It’s just another year.
Where’s the cake?)