SUNLADEN
By David Allen
She was a sunladen maiden,
a bronzed beauty
born of sunkissed beaches
and winter tanning beds.
But the ultraviolent rays
photoaged her
and her darkened skin
turned leathery,
with wallowed wrinkles
and blotched barnacles.
Cancer threatened her days.
She had been sunsuckered.
Brown is beautiful,
the fashion mags stressed.
And now she’s sunsundered,
cloaked head-to-toe
to hide the tandamage.
NOTE: This poem was a challenge from the Last stanza Poetry Association to write a poem with invented words that sound like they're not. Did you stumble over them?
Today is my youngest son’s 37th birthday. A couple of years ago he went into a coma after an old friend gave him a “kill shot” with the intent to rob him. We didn’t know if he’d survive a week, let alone recover. He has since married and moved on, still suffering from short-term memory and other symptoms of a traumatic brain injury. But he’s keeping on keeping on!
Here are poems we wrote about his bad trip.
I CAN’T SLEEP
By David Allen
I can’t sleep
while my son sleeps
this troubled sleep.
A seizure slapped his skull
with a wash of blood
that squeezed his brain
and forced the sleep
with eyes rolled up
and shaking limbs.
A tube plunged down his throat
helps him breathe,
while one in his skull
drains the invading blood.
And we caress him
and hold his hands
and give assurances
of undying love,
as he sleeps
the drug-induced sleep
from which we were told
might never end.
I can’t sleep
while my son sleeps
what well might be
the final dream
about what may
or may not come next.
I WAS ASLEEP
By Matthew Allen
I was asleep for two weeks.
Then I woke up relearning how to speak,
walking on legs that were already weak.
I asked if the hemorrhage was from the tweak.
Yup
The tweak exploded a vein in my brain
causing a blood clot,
killin’ parts of the gray matter
that controlled movement on my left side,
my speech, and short term memory.
It was a little like blowin’ a head gasket
or having a water pipe burst
and flood the basement.
I’ll tell you about it,
but, don’t ask me too much.
I don’t know why my “friends ”
gave me what the cops called
a “kill shot” to knock me out
and steal stuff from my Dad’s house.
The docs are telling me my memory
May not ever be the same,
But I know one thing --I’m still fightin’ and will get better
While those “friends” rot in prison.
Matt’s children flew in from Okinawa to visit him. No one knew if he recover or die
THE CHUNKY MOUSE
By David Allen
Moe the mouse
was the slovenly sort,
always looking for a way out
of sharing food he found
in the food factory.
Which is what brought
him to Minnie’s Court.
“This is the fourth time
this week that you’ve
been caught in your
solitary chow downs,”
She said. “What say you?”
“I didn’t think there was enough
meat for everyone,” Moe burped.
“Well, I’m afraid you’re fired,” Minnie said.
And Moe was escorted away.
Some days later, a woman in Elwood
learned about Minnie’s l love of puns
when she opened a can of Campbell’s
Chunky soup and bit into Moe’s shoulder.
He had indeed been canned.
WANDERLUST
By David Allen
It's a wonder my parents
didn’t get in trouble
for letting me run free.
From as far back as I remember,
I did things that could have
brought charges of child neglect
for allowing me to run wild.
I am the oldest of seven children
and gladly surrendered the role
of mother's little helper
to my sister, two years younger,
while I discovered the world.
Trespassing was my usual crime.
Abandoned homes, factories,
military bases, and the estates
of Roaring Twenties millionaires,
decayed after the Depression.
They were my playground.
I never knew what I might find
Signs of a ghost?
Old books, photos?
Remains of animals?
Forgotten paintings?
Broken statues?
Stairways to the sky?
I once found the blackened
remainder of a forgotten pie
in an old wood oven.
In a mildewed closet,
I discovered a half-filled diary
that ended with a huge
hand-drawn exclamation point.
In a flooded factory basement
I used a wooden door as a raft.
I was lucky no one
ever confronted me
as I sought what remained
when life moved on
to other structures
and other worlds.
No Flow
By David Allen
I wonder
If the reason
My fountain pen
Fails to write
An impressive
Bold black line
Is the same
As my current
Writer's block.
The ink,
Like the words,
Just refuses
To flow.
The warning that came With my new prescription Said a possible side effect Was Restless Leg Syndrome. I scratched my head and thought, “Side effect? What’s the big deal? Hell, I’ve had restless legs all my life.”
I was never much of a stay-at-home, At last count, I’ve moved 43 times In the last seven decades. I hitchhiked and drove through Most of the U.S. states And lived in four of them’ And the District of Columbia. I also lived and worked in Guam And Okinawa, Japan, And cruised around Germany, Korea, Thailand, and numerous South Pacific and Caribbean Islands.
So, yeah, my legs are restless And I am excited to see Where they’ll take me Once this new medicine works.
Within a week the world turned green outside my humble home. Branches that bore tiny green shoots now bend with the weight of broad oak leaves. The woods are alive with chatterings and coos. But the leaves hide the high aerie roosts and the busy birds tending their broods.
Something strange Is happening here. Matched socks Become unmated When freed from the dryer. And the footloose Shoe stuffers Leave no word Of where they went.
And parking in a space Called a driveway Leaves me scratching My head bald and benumbed, Remembering how I was also Confused by driving On parkways.
But nothing was as weird As the warped wire mystery That messed with me today As I looked in an old storage tub For a smartphone charger. The wires I swear were placed there Individually months, years ago, Was one huge mass.
Old phone cords wound around Extension cords that must have Extended welcome to strings Of earbuds and HDMI connectors Who gladly wrapped themselves In a loose wire love fest, Apparently testing All the tangled twists Of the Kama Sutra.
I spent more than an hour Unwinding them while wondering What I would find the next time I searched for a cord.
WANDERLUST
By David Allen
It's a wonder my parents
didn’t get in trouble
for letting me run free.
From as far back as I remember,
I did things that could have
brought charges of child neglect
for allowing me to run wild.
I am the oldest of seven children
and gladly surrendered the role
of mother's little helper
to my sister, two years younger,
while I discovered the world.
Trespassing was my usual crime.
Abandoned homes, factories,
military bases, and the estates
of Roaring Twenties millionaires,
decayed after the Depression.
They were my playground.
I never knew what I might find
Signs of a ghost?
Old books, photos?
Remains of animals?
Forgotten paintings?
Broken statues?
Stairways to the sky?
I once found the blackened
remainder of a forgotten pie
in an old wood oven.
In a mildewed closet,
I discovered a half-filled diary
that ended with a huge
hand-drawn exclamation point.
In a flooded factory basement
I used a wooden door as a raft.
I was lucky no one
ever confronted me
as I sought what remained
when life moved on
to other structures
and other worlds.
Type Dancing 