Posts Tagged ‘dreams’

Good Morning

Posted: March 1, 2020 in Poetry, war
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 GOOD MORNING
By David Allen

Good morning
I awake and kiss you lightly on the cheek
          (your pillow is bare)
And softly stroke your long, brown hair.
You turn in bed to face me
Looking into my eyes with eyes
I love to drown my soul in
         (there’s but one body’s impression
         there’s but one side of the bed to make).
 
I whisper softly that I love you
The radio answers with a song
          (I leave it playing all night long
          to accompany this loneliness).
 
I start to leave; you reach for my hand,
We touch 
          (the air is not as soft)
You pull me to your side
          (I stare at the pillow)
I take your head in my hands
We kiss,
Wine sweet.
 
The taste turns bitter
You slowly dissolve
Parts of you breaking apart
A jigsaw puzzle
I scream
I pick up the pieces of you
And start to glue
But the head’s on backwards.
 
My dog jumps on the bed
Scattering you around the room
On my knees I search for you
My dog licks my face
My eyes lose their sleep
I awake.
 
There is no puzzle
My dog sleeps, head nuzzled
In the crook of my arm
You are at home
Unaware that for a while
We made love in 
The life of my night.
 

BENNY’S BORN

Posted: February 7, 2016 in Poetry
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Chaos Tour 020

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?

DREAMS

Posted: November 6, 2015 in Poetry
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lucid-dreaming-mirror

DREAMS
By David Allen

The first dream I remember
was a child’s nightmare.
I was four, maybe five,
and I dreamt I somehow
had crawled through an electrical
wall socket and passed through
to a land of bright, vibrant colors
and eerie cartoon characters
who guided me to a lemonade stand.
I awoke before I could drink the Kool-Ade.

Twenty five years later
I studied how to program
And control my dreams and
embarked on a six-month
re-run of key, important,
character-forming events.
I never interfered with the plot,
but instead approached my
dreamself at the end, shook
his hand and thanked him,
saying, “Now I understand.”
I never went back to those dreams
or repeated the experiment.
I preferred to let them run their course.
It was more fun to float over
the local park late at night,
or drive fast on a winding
mountain road, than to relive
the day I quit the job
at the Styrofoam factory.

Today I still dream randomly,
although some themes repeat –
lost cars, great sex, racing
my car on winding mountain roads.
My dreamself knows it’s all a dream,
but it’s interesting to let them play out,
To see where they go.

Sometimes,
these dreams are
more interesting
than this waking world.
 

WHEN I SEE YOU

Posted: August 25, 2015 in Poetry
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WHEN I SEE YOU
By David Allen

When I See You
my heart soars high,
I can float, I can fly,
I can do the things
I’ve always dreamed.

For, you’re my inspiration,
you’re my muse,
you are all the lovers I have known.
You’re my inspiration,
you’re my muse,
you are the flower of the wild seeds I’ve sown 

I saw you first
in a teenager’s dream.
You quenched my thirst
on a desert drive.
You were with me
when I was all alone,
you helped me see
when I was blind.
And when I wrote of love
I was writing just for you,
‘though I had no idea
we would ever ever be.
And when I wrote of pain,
I was crying just for you
and the missing love I thought
would never be.

Now that I’ve found you,
I wonder what you are.
Are you my soulmate
or just a passing star?
Are we meant forever?
Or is it just for now?
I swear, I’d seek the answer,
but I don’t know how. 

So, I stay content with us
as two souls intertwined,
alive within this space
with room for just our hearts.

And if it means foralways
I accept it with a smile,
and put out of mind the time
when we will have to part. 

For, you’re my inspiration,
you’re my muse,
you are the reward for all
the times I almost went insane.
Your’e my inspiration
you’re my muse,
you are the test I finally aced
when the cards were down
and I had to end the game.

You’re my inspiration,
you’re my muse,
you are all the lovers that I’ve known,
you are the flower of the wild seeds I’ve sown.
 

My second book of poetry, “(more)’ is now available on Amazon Kindle. The paperback edition is also available. If you want a signed copy, email me at david@davidallen.nu. Order your copy today! I am like most poets — poor.

(more) Cover

http://www.amazon.com/more-David-Allen-ebook/dp/B00N6W3DP8/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=undefined&sr=1-2&keywords=%28more%29+by+David+Allen

Here’s a review:

5.0 out of 5 stars Wanting (more), September 2, 2014
By Jenny A. Kalahar “the_story_shop” (Elwood, IN USA)
Here are wonderful, literate poems of longing, wit, wisdom and resistance; justice, injustice, the absurdities of life and of growing older. There are lines full of sensuality at every stage of our existence, and of the waste and usefulness around us. Tinged with the atmosphere of the Orient, they are as luxurious as legs that go all the way up. Mr. Allen’s years as a newspaper man stain his poems with a rougher ink that sticks to your fingers long after you’ve turned his pages. There are losses – parents, loved ones, friends – but there are poems of finding and creating. Children, grandchildren, lovers, partners in crime and art all swirl throughout this collection, humming like a secret humming song. But unlike most hummed songs, these words do matter. They do. So read them now and sing along.

RUTH ELLEN (27 YEARS)

Posted: August 16, 2015 in Poetry
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 Me and my Muse, Okinawa 2005 (or so)

RUTH ELLEN (27 YEARS)
By David Allen
 

Ruth Ellen, I’m tellin’
You don’t look your age
Your beauty’s compelling
And worth every page
Of the dozens of poems
I wrote of you and our love
 

You remain my muse
As you were before we met
I just didn’t know back then
If I would ever get
To be with the woman
Who haunted my dreams
Faceless, she beckoned
Her outstretched arms seemed
To invite the poet in.

 In the traditional wedding vow
The couple agrees to remain together
“In sickness and health”
Well, we’ve lived that line
And we’re coming out fine
We’ve remain unbeaten, if weathered.

 

Chesterfield, IN
16 Aug, 2015

 

THROUGH A SCANNER DARKLY

Posted: September 21, 2014 in Poetry
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Bone scanner 2

THROUGH A SCANNER DARKLY
By David Allen

My aching bones
brought me to this
nuclear medicine lab
where a smiling nurse
filled me with a radioactive
soup that made my bones glow
for the scanner.

Lying flat on my back,
hands over my head,
the lab light darkened
as the huge metal machine
rolled over my body,
two inches above my nose,
and took pictures of my bones
as I quickly fell asleep
(it’s a talent I have).

Soon, I was in a Midwest newsroom
where I spent some eight years
as the ace crime reporter,
listening to some management geek
explain that the news staff
was to be reduced by four reporters.
A RIF, he called it, as if reduction in force
was more polite than just saying,
“Get the fuck outta here.”

I enviously eyed the computer
that sat on a small rolling table
I shared with the reporter
at the next cubicle.
I was hoping the firings would
free up some space, so I could have
the computer all to myself,
and maybe moved my pile of clips
and news releases and other paperwork
to his desk.

I was beginning to enjoy that thought
when I heard my name called.
“Allen,” the pretentious prick
of an executive editor said. “You’re lucky
we don’t kick your sorry ass outta here!
Maybe next time,” he laughed.
and the sycophants laughed along with him.

But I knew I was safe.
I knew where all the bodies were buried
and no no one else had the sources I had.

I looked around the newsroom,
smiled and wondered which one
of the faces I was gawking at
wouldn’t be there tomorrow.
I was about to start making my guesses
when I heard a faint beep
and a voice over my shoulder said,
“All right, Mr. Allen, we’re done.”
“Well, I’m not,” I thought.
But I had already opened my eyes

Man, that old newsroom was
twenty-four years in the past,
and that scene never happened.
Why’d I dream that up?

You know, you never know
why something pops up in a dream,
no matter what the dream studies say.
A car turns into a train with no
effect on the plot; sex with a beautiful woman
suddenly becomes a fight with a bear;
you lose your car in the parking lot
only to find it parked on the roof, ready to
fly you off to a new adventure.

Dreamscapes just happen.
Just like how my bones
All of a sudden, I seems,
Have just started aching with age.

 

 

My second book of poetry, “(more)’ is now available in Kindle and paperback editions.  Order your copy today!

KINDLE:

http://www.amazon.com/more-David-Allen-ebook/dp/B00N6W3DP8/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=undefined&sr=1-2&keywords=%28more%29+by+David+Allen

PAPERBACK:

http://www.amazon.com/more-David-G-Allen/dp/1501018930/ref=sr_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1411007090&sr=1-4&keywords=%28more%29+by+David+Allen