LOST
By David Allen
The argument made no sense
The words were hard and harsh
So, I grabbed my keys and headed for my car.
The “I Love Yous,” were thrown
But they were not caught
As I drove from the home of despair.
The sun had set, clouds ruled the sky
And rain started at the first stop sign.
The radio was broken, so I sang to myself
As I turned onto a narrow country lane.
The windshield wipers kept time
As dark thoughts filled the air
Until I opened the window and
Skyward they were blown.
I drove for hours, turning again and again
As if to throw off the weight of despair
The car’s dashboard console went dark
Wiping out my GPS, and so it wasn’t long
Before I was good and lost.
The rain poured in the open window
Cold but somehow refreshing
I drove aimlessly on, meditating
On how things were and used to be.
The longer I drove, the more my heavy heart eased.
Refreshed, I decided to find a way back home
Just as the country lane met a major interchange
And a sign pointed me on my way.
But the closer I got, the darker the sky
And my mood again weighed heavy
I passed my street and drove on
Promising to return when the dawn breaks
To shine a light on what went wrong.
……………………………………………………………………………….
Looking for a great Christmas present? Why not give a book of poetry? 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.
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.
Type Dancing 