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.
Posts Tagged ‘David Allen’
WORDS
Posted: June 4, 2016 in PoetryTags: adjectivess, David Allen, nouns, painfully, poem, poetry, type dancing, verbs, vile visions, words
1
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?
OBSERVATIONS ON A YARDSAILING TRIP
Posted: January 25, 2016 in PoetryTags: books, crossword puzzles, David Allen, observations, poem, poetry, rare books, writing, yard sales, yardsailing
OBSERVATIONS ON A YARDSAILING TRIP
By David Allen
Sitting in the car
While my wife examines
Yard Sale treasures,
I jot down words
I hope become a poem.
Earlier, we drove by a young man
Walking down the street
With both hands inside
The front of his pants,
Which sagged below his waist.
Couldn’t he afford a belt?
Faded American flags
Hang in front of homes
In sore need of a
Fresh coat of paint.
I am writing this
In a notebook
I bought in Japan.
On the cover it states,
“It is our hope
That this item will
Become your good friend
And help make your life
Enjoyable all the time.”
I hope it does.
I stay in the car
While my muse barters
With the Yardsellers.
I work crossword puzzles
To fill the time when
Writer’s block stalls
The poem’s progress.
Maybe a word up or down
Will fill the blanks.
Suddenly, my wife
Excitedly opens the car door
And shows me a “find.”
“Look at this forgotten treasure,”
She says. “Cost a dollar.”
It is a copy of the first book
Ever published by Simon and Schuster
“A Cross Word Puzzle Book.”
I’m puzzled it is for sale
And not on some rare books list.
Well, you may think
This poem doesn’t
Make any sense.
That’s okay
Give me two pennies
And it will.
TEMPTATION
Posted: January 22, 2016 in PoetryTags: addiction, alcoholism, broken spirit, David Allen, demanding, doorbell, enabling, fear, hopelessness, NO, poem, poetry, temptation, tinnitus, writing
TEMPTATION
By David Allen
The piece of paper
Plucked from the poet’s
Brilliant Ideas jar read
“Temptation is sure
To knock on your door…”
Temptation rings so often
It creates a tinnitus hum,
A constant ringing, whooshing
Electric buzz that drowns
Out rationality.
The tempter is the urge
To fix the broken people
Ringing constantly,
Begging, pleading,
Demanding.
The enabler futilely tries
To save them, to prevent
Their final fall, the plunge
To the bottom of the pit
Their addictions create;
Until he, too, breaks
In spirit, helplessly
Caught up in the
Spiraling descent.
Hopeless, he shouts
“Stop this! How can
I stop this?”
And, finally, a voice
In the darkness answers:
“Temptation may ring,
But you don’t have to invite
It to dinner. Say ‘No’
Just say NO!”
It’s then the ringing stops
And there is light.”
POEMS FOR dVERSE
Posted: January 19, 2016 in PoetryTags: challenge, David Allen, dVERSE, Ginsberg, poem, poetry, writing
dVerse is a great online poetry group that constantly challenges poets to write better and greater things. Every Tuesday there is a challenge of some sort and this week it’s to write poems in response to poems by your favorite poets. Below I am including two poems I have written in the past inspired by one of my favorite poets, Allen Ginsberg.
The first is “My Howl,” the second is “America.” It’s easy to Google the originals. Here’s mine:
My Howl
By David Allen
I saw the best pups of my litter
petted, pawed at, pulled
from Mom’s teat too soon.
crammed in cages, placed on view,
prices posted on paper-lined lairs,
dens barely large enough to
turn around in. Sold to strangers,
shampooed, collared, carted away
from cagemates in cars, transported
to new dens ruled by bipeds.
Lonely without litter mates,
we tried to play puppy games.
But our friendly greeting bites
were met with shrill shouts,
“No bite! No bite!”
No bite?
What do they want us to do?
Lie still while the world awaits,
to taste, to smell, to roll in?
Hide our excitement? Be rude?
Passively accept the patting hand,
the petting massage, with
no teeth? To bite the hand
that feeds you is not a crime,
but a compliment. We do not tear at their flesh,
but mouth them, teeth and tongue
become a part of them, forming a We.
Ahh, but bipeds think too slow and
cannot broadcast their thoughts,
or receive, no matter how hard we try to send.
They cannot talk to wind, to leaves, to grass,
to the pack with thoughts.
They bark, but never bite.
What sin did they commit to
have to keep their thoughts to themselves?
Bipeds! Hapless bipeds! You treat my brothers sorely,
You speak with shouts and coos, commands and tempt
us with treats, but we know of Pavlov and
his bells. We trained him. Who was it got to eat?
Bipeds! You can chain us, but never own us.
You can cage our bodies, but our minds run free.
Bipeds! We will shake your hand, come when called,
Chase your balls, catch your Frisbees.
But remember always, it’s our choice
when to obey and when to run.
The wild dog you invited to share
your campfire is within us still.
Bipeds! Hear our growls. Know
you may drive some of us crazy,
you may take the mad ones, the
outcast, abandoned ones away,
cage us together one last time
in death row kennels;
put us to that never waking sleep,
to sleep, perchance to dream, of freedom
that you can never know.
Bipeds! You may force us to
act the fool; dress us as clowns,
make us look ridiculous,
cut our hair in weird designs,
dye our ears, bob our tails, but
you cannot conquer our spirit.
For — I saw the best pups of my litter,
spirit-filled, running free, despite leash and cage.
For we are what you bipeds can never be —
We are dogs!
AMERICA REVISTED
By David Allen
America, I’ve given you all and now I’m something
America, nineteen dollars and twenty seven cents June 27, 2014.
Inflation fried my mind
America, when will we end the Islamic wars?
Go fuck yourself with your drone bombs.
I feel good now, follow me
I write my poems when I’m in my right mind
America, when will you be Humanist?
When will you take off your masks?
When will you look at yourself in the mirror?
When will you be worthy of your pacifists?
America, why are your schools full of fear?
America, when will you feed your poor?
I’m sick of your insanity.
When can I go to the supermarket and buy what I
Need without fear of poison?
America, after all it is you and I who exist now,
Not in some next world.
Your capitalism is destroying us.
You make me want to be Canadian.
There must be some other way to settle this debate.
If I could travel to Japan I don’t think I’d come back.
Are you really serious or is this some kind of reality TV series?
I’m trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my freedom.
America, stop tapping my phone and internet.
America, your poll numbers are falling.
I read the newspapers every day
And every day somebody goes to prison for drug possession
While the mega-thieves on Wall Street get new tax breaks.
America, I feel sentimental about Carter.
America, I read Ayn Rand when I was a kid
I’m now sorry.
If I could, I’d smoke marijuana all the time.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the news on TV.
I stayed at the Roach Motel and never got saved.
My mind is made up, there’s going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Bukowski.
My Muse insists I must write more.
I won’t say the Lord’s Prayer at Al-anon meetings.
I have crazy thoughts that bleed into poetry.
America, I still haven’t told you what you did to our
Soldiers after they came back from Iraq.
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Be sure to visit the dVerse Poets Pub ATT http://dversepoets.com/tag/dverse-poets-pub/
Type Dancing 