Posts Tagged ‘Okinawa’

airline_passenger_portraits

ACCEPTANCE
By David Allen

Flying over the pacific
is never peaceful –
I return to the problems
I left behind when I fled
to the East.

The woman sitting next to me
strikes up a conversation,
she’s the mother of a Marine
assigned to Okinawa
and is returning after a visit
to her first granddaughter.
“She is healthy,
God bless,” she declares.
And this woman’s husband
has a successful electrical business
in St. Louis — “God Bless!” — and life,
“Praise the Lord!”
Is good.

Somewhere in the conversation
I mention I am going to Indiana
for the birth of my second grandchild
and a brief trek to New York
to tout my new book of poetry.

She asks to look at the book
and I find one in my bag,
and, as she reads, I watch
out of the corner of my eye,
pretending to read a magazine
while trying to fathom
her reaction to my poems.
My blood is all over the pages.

I spot her reading
the one about another flight
and the religious Filipina
and scientific Japanese student
sitting next to me, the dirty old man poet
reading Bukowski and dreaming
of smooth, creamy white thighs,
and I wonder what my new seatmate
is thinking.

When she is finished
she mentions the poems are
“interesting,” and handing
the book back asks –
“Have you accepted Jesus
as your personal savior?”

I smile, realizing the conversation is
about to end and answer,
“I tried several times
but he never accepted me.”

And we slept in silence
the rest of the flight.

——————————————————————————————————————————————-

(more) CoverMy 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.

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.

AND HERE’S MY FIRST BOOK

Cover

Like my poetry? Then buy my book, “The Story So Far,” published by Writers Ink Press, Long Island, N.Y. You can find it on Amazon.com (http://www.amazon.com/Story-So-Far-David-Allen/dp/0925062480/ref=sr_1_13?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1397184666&sr=1-13&keywords=the+story+so+far) in paperback and Kindle formats, or by sending me $10 at:

David Allen
803 Avalon Lane
Chesterfield, IN 46017

DSCF0017

What I Did on My Summer Vacation in October

or

Someone Painted the Pig’s Balls Blue

By David Allen

Prelude: 

            The paycheck stub
            says use or lose
            so, I choose
            vacation —
            V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N
            This is how it went.

 Day One:

            I read poems
          and the earth moves.
            Miles below us
            the earth rocks —
            no connection.
            “The crowd was
            pretty silent,” I say,
            returning to my seat.
            “We were all wondering
            whether to run,” Ruth
            Ellen answers.
            Again, no connection.

 Day Two:

             Sunday
            rain followed by rain
            with a little more rain,
            a drowsy, kind of
            sleep in day to make
             the transition to vacation.
            Pizza Man,
            up to his ankles in water
            braving the flood
            delivering the meatrageous.
            Diets be damned,
            we’re on vacation!
 
Day Three: 

            Rain at dawn;
            what a surprise!
            It rains cats and dogs,
            fish and frogs;
            it pours in buckets,
            falls straight in sheets,
            it rains blankets —
            hell, it rains the whole damn mattress.
            We shop for last
            minute things and buy
           what impulse brings.
 
Day Four: 

            Off for the fair shores of Okuma,
            North island mountains,
            sandy seashore. We’re off
            to bathe ourselves in sunshine.
            But first, we must survive the rain.
            It rains so hard
            we can’t  tell sea from sky
            and the road is a river
            of water looking
            for an open drain.
            Kadena Circle is a fog of spray
            cars fishtail, wipers
            futilely beat at the rain
            slapping time to
            a Buffett refrain.
            At the Kina slaughterhouse
            and restaurant someone
            painted the pig’s balls blue.
            An omen, ‘cause just outside
            of Nago the blue sky
            breaks through.
            Mountains steamy,
            wisps of clouds play
            in and out the window
            through the folds.
            Salvador Dali slopes,
            cement slabs slide
            down the mountainside —
            no falling rocks here.

 
            The road narrows,
            double lanes hug the coast.
            Shioya Bridge, it pleases me
            to drive through your bright red arches
            before your featureless brother
            takes your place.
 

            And then — Okuma!
            “No bottled beverages
            allowed in this facility.”
            Quick, hide
            the long-necked Becks.
 

            Ruth Ellen, trusted
            navigator, willing scribe,
            says the poem’s taking
            epic proportions:
 

                        By the shores of great Okuma
                        I bit deep into my burger,
                        burger smothered rich with mushrooms
                        covered with a coat of cheese.
                        I bit deep into my burger
                        and let out a moan of pleasure,
                        startling my lunch companion
                        she said, “Well, I see you’re pleased.
                        You never moan so loud when we’re together
                        doing the dance of mare and stallion;
                        (Oh, the pickle and the onion)
                        No, you never moan so loud
                        on the nights we roll in bed.”
                        I could only nod my head,
                        for I was no Indian brave,
                        and it was the Cheeseburger in Paradise
                        that I had craved
                        since before the trip began.
 
Day Five: 

            Inaccuweather calls for
            scattered showers
            interrupted by torrents.
            During a sun break, we
            try snorkeling, but
            Mother Ocean’s strong current
            threatens to carry us away.
            “Not yet, not today!”
            we shout, as we leave Robinson Crusoe
            footprints in the sand.
            “There’s adventure ahead.
            We’re on vacation, dammit!”

 
            The way to beat the clouds
            is to drive into them.
            Cross Highway 58,
            past the turnoff to Higa Falls,
            and up, up, up
            the snaking mountain road
            that twists and turns
            like a woman’s body,
            caressing the curves,
            finessing them with convex
            mirrors, we drive through
            the clouds forming
            in the valleys below.
 
            Mile, after mile
            and not another soul.
            At spots the jungle threatens
             to reclaim the road,
            eliminate all trace of the
            concrete ribbon rising
            up, up, up
            and around and down
            and up again.
            A little traveled trail,
            a patchy asphalt one-lane
            almost-path branches
            off, beckons.
            Dare we take it?
            Dare we not?
 

            Our Honda Shuttle
            was not made for such
            adventure, but handles
            well the trail, so unused
            that at parts vast spider
            webs — spider condos —
            block our passage.
            Rain droplets, like diamonds,
            hang from the silk.
            Ruth Ellen gently
            brushes them aside
            with a big stick.
            Hard work,
            the intricate webs
            are strongly anchored
            and she is sprung back
            a few attempts
            before she clears a path.
            “I didn’t want to ruin
            such art,” she says
            as we roll onward,
            ever upward, under
            the canopy of trees.
 

            Suddenly, bright yellow posts
            mark the edge of the trail.
            “USMC,” they are stamped.
            We wonder what that means.
            But no one said “Keep Out.”
            So we continue our climb.
            Beside us, steep drops
            down the rocky, jungle slopes.
            We stop and stand at the edge
             and all we see is a
            carpet of green, mile after
             mile of mountain,
                        inviting,
                                    embracing,
                                                nurturing.
            We stand, and with
             upraised arms we shout,
            “Top O’ the world, Ma!
                        Top O’ the World!”
 
            The trail ends abruptly,
            an anticlimax at
            a barbwired U.S.
            Army enclosure,
            a microwave tower,
            concrete and steel
            monstrosity, way out
            of place here in Heaven.
 
            Reluctantly, we turn and trek
            back down the trail
            of the banana spiders.
            On the main road,
            on a rare straight stretch,
            a sign in kanji and English shouts:
             “Speed Down!”
            Of course!
            Speed down!
            There is no incessant voice
            from Tokyo, some editor
            demanding 10 more inches
            of copy in 15 minutes.
            There’s no newshole
            for the newswhores to fill.
            Speed Down! and smell the —
            well, hibiscus and pineapple
            will have to substitute for the
            fabled roses.
            Speed Down!
            and smell the ocean.
            “Speed Down!” it shouts,
            (“You’re on vacation.”)

 
Day Six:

            A bad body day means spending the time
            inside, reading to my soulmate as she
            fights the phantom pain the disease insists
            is the price for a few pain-less, or rather
            less pain-filled days.
                        (Pain and fatigue play
                        their game upon the field
                        that is her body;
                        sometimes, like soccer,
                        scoreless, some sweet succor,
                        sometimes running up the score.
                        They are in double digits today.)

 
            Yet, she still serves me a grimace
            with a smile chaser as I
            read her to sleep —
            e.e.cummings’
            “I six nonlectures,”
            A book borrowed from
            a new young poet friend
            just discovering his muse
            (how I envy the paths he has yet to tread,
            the poems and books yet to be read).
 
            And in the reading,
‘           while she dozes and wakes,
            drifts in and out of painfullness
            I discover cummings’
            nonlecture on what
            a poet is:
 

                        “If you wish to follow
                        even at a distance,                
                        the poet’s calling…
                        you’ve got to come out
                        of the measurable doing universe
                        into the unmeasurable house of being.
                        If poetry is your goal
                        you’ve got to forget
                        all about punishments and
                        all about rewards and
                        all about selfstyled obligations
                        and duties and responsibilities
                        etcetra ad infinitum
                        and remember one thing only —
                        that it’s you, nobody else, who
                        determines your destiny and decides your fate.
                        Nobody else can live for you,
                        nor can you live for anyone else.”

 
            And so, I read to my wife,
            my muse, my partner in
            life’s discourse and spend
            the most pleasurable day
            of my vacation.

 
            At night, dinner with a sunset for dessert.
            The thing I like about sunsets best
            is, just as the leading lady leaves the stage,
            the whole sky explodes in colorfullness,
            an ovation for another day well done.
            My love loves best
            this dimming of the day
            when all cares and pain
            like butter melt away
            and, like an old friend,
            the night comes to cloak our nakedness
            with a fine silk robe.

  

Day Seven:
 
            On the Seventh Day I wish
            I could say we rested,
            but instead we drove
            as the sun shone strong
            back home to where our worries
            and cares waited, pouting children
            mad we didn’t take them along.
 

Okuma, Okinawa

October 1998

 

This is a poem from my first book of poetry, “The Story So Far,” available on Amazon.com.

           

USMC-M-Okinawa-OFC

Seventy years ago this week the last and bloodiest land battle in the Pacific during World War II began. Twenty years ago I was the Okinawa News Bureau Chief for Stars and Stripes and was allowed to cover the three months of reunions and ceremonies any way I wanted. Here’s one of my best stories during that period. The news piece read like a poem and here it is, unchanged except translating it into poetic form.

THE NAMES
By David Allen

George Allen White Jr.,
Edward Lewis White,
James White

Names,
American Marines who died on Okinawa.
These names are read in June,
in April the names were soldiers,
May was for sailors.

Names
every day.

On April 1,
the reading of the names began
to commemorate
April Fool’s Day,
Easter Sunday,
Love Day,
the day the Americans invaded Okinawa,
struck back on Japan’s home soil
in 1945.

Every day
for an hour at lunch
and in the evening
they came to read the names
at a church high on a hill
overlooking the invasion beaches.
A church with American and Japanese parishioners,
with a Japanese-Canadian priest,
who spent his war in a cold Saskatchewan internment camp.
Every day
they come to
All Souls Episcopal Church
to read the names of the souls
lost.

James Preston White,
James Thomas White,
Jerry Wilson White.

They are coming to the end.
Eighty-three days,
each day of the battle.
Returning veterans,
some with wives and grown children,
sit in the back of the chapel.
Silent.
Respectful.

Thousands of names.
12,281 Americans,
110,000 Japanese soldiers and Okinawan conscripts,
More than 150,000 Okinawa civilians.

Logan Willard White Jr.,
Thomas George White,
Charles Edward Whiteman.

Each name another soldier,
sailor, aviator, civilian
killed in the carnage that was
the Battle of Okinawa.

Listen –

James Richard Whiteman,
Mark Edward Whiteman,
Forrest Whitt,
Joseph Henry Whitaker.

Whisper them softly,
fall into the rhythm.
it’s a Jewish Kaddish,
a Buddhist chant,
a Christian prayer.
Meditate.

Joseph Henry Whittaker,
Marvin Jones Wiggins,
William Robert Wiggins.

Name after name.
Each man some mother’s son,
some father’s pride.
this one the class clown;
that one the brain.

Some were orphans,
no family except their platoon
or shipmates.
That guy was a Gary steelworker,
and wasn’t little Jimmy Whit
the mechanic down at the corner garage?

And what of the names read
on other days?

David Bond,
Earl Graham,
Ernie Pyle.

Wait, that one’s familiar.

Pyle, a newspaperman,
he wrote about these people,
always making sure he got the names right.
Thousands of names for the readers back home,
’til a Japanese sniper reaped his name
for the book of the fallen.

All-American names
like,
Howard S. Schwartz,
Louis Odachowski,
Kazuyoshi Inouye.

Some of the veterans are uneasy
on the wooden church pews,
it’s hard to sit through.
The reader’s voice is hoarse,
so many names.

Robert Wiggins,
Gray Huntley Whitman,
Hugh Whittington.

So many names.
Names inscribed on a striking monument
on Mabuni Hill, where the Japanese Army
made its last stand.
The Cornerstones of Peace,
the names of the dead from all the countries,
carved into 1,200 black granite walls,
stretching to the sea
like the wings of doves.

Donald James Wilton,
Kenneth William Wilkins,
Jack Williard.

The American list is over for the day.
the veterans leave,
handkerchiefs pat at moist eyes.
Few remain in the chapel
as a new reader sits at the table.
She begins to read.

Sato Yoshiro,
Yasuoka Tomohiko,
Murakami Minoru.

More names.
These are Japanese,
a college conscript from Tokyo,
a farmer from Hokkaido.
soldiers in the Emperor’s Army on Okinawa
when the Americans came with their
Typhoon of Steel.

Pak Man-do,
Chou Che-jiu,
Song Yong.

Korean names,
forced laborers,
comfort women.

Masahiro Kohagura,
Masao Ota,
Kiyo Yamashiro…

Okinawa names,
Page after page.
It sometimes takes 10 minutes
to read the day’s American names,
maybe 25 minutes for the Japanese,
much longer for the Okinawans.
That name belonged to a fisherman from Kin.
And wasn’t that the name of the mother from Itoman
who huddled in fear
at the rear of a deep cave with her two children,
shivering with fright as death came calling,
collecting his names?

Grandfathers,
babies,
teenage girls pressed into service to tend
the wounded.
Whole families of names,
each a sad reminder of War’s toll;
each name a testament.
To what?

Life.
This person once lived.
“I existed,
I had a name,
I was somebody.”

Read our names,
remember us.

6025

This photo is called “Girl with the White Flag.” It was taken by a GI as a tunnel filled with civilians was cleared. They Survived. Many more did not.

This poem is included in my first book, “The Story So Far,” published by Writers Ink Press (New York), copyright 2004 and available on Amazon.com. Or get a signed copy by emailing me at david@davidallen.nu.

Tropical Xmas

News item: The military community on Okinawa once was short of live Christmas trees because a bug-infested shipment from Washington state had to be destroyed. Supplies of artificial trees on island bases were woefully inadequate and trees in Japanese stores were outrageously expensive.

 So naturally, Ruth Ellen and I made up this carol while on our quest for a Christmas Pine in Paradise:

NO CHRISTMAS TREE
By David Allen

No Christmas trees, no Christmas tree
The bugs destroyed your branches.
Shipped here by sea for you and me
You never got your chances.
No blinking lights, no angel’s heights
No shiny star atop your spar
No Christmas tree, No Christmas tree
The bugs destroyed your branches.

 
No Christmas tree, no Christmas tree
Cut in the great Northwest.
The Customs men had you condemned
You couldn’t pass the test.
No falling needles everywhere
No Christmas tinsel in our hair
No Christmas tree, no Christmas tree
Cut in the great Northwest.

 No Christmas tree, no Christmas tree,
Your plastic was so tempting.
But your high price turned veins to ice
We can’t afford that yen thing.
And so we’ll go sing “ho, ho, ho,”
To a beach that’s out of reach
We’ll watch the stars for Santa Claus,
And buy a Christmas wreath.”

 

 

 

images (40)

BEHIND THE HEADLINES
By David Allen

“Okinawa in Turmoil
In Airman Rape Case”

That’s the headline
The reality?
Twenty protesters gather
At the air base’s front gate
Shout slogans,
Shake fists,
Then hop the bus and stop
For burgers at McDonald’s.
Politicians in Naha
Do the dance of the outraged
And make plans for more
Gomen money from Tokyo.
Maybe they’ll use it
To pave another road to nowhere.
My neighbor, Eizo,
Descended from kings,
Walks into Paul’s pad
Outraged.
Outraged the gaijins
Who rent his cabins
Don’t appreciate his favorite beer.
“Budweiser number one!
Budweiser ichiban!”
He shouts.
Paul, an Irishman from London, laughs,
“Bud number ten!” he shouts
And offers the King of Iha,
Standing there barefoot in a white tee-shirt
and blue work pants,
His glass of Guinness.
“Slante,’” Paul toasts. “Drink this.”
“No, no,” Eizo laughs. “No good.”
They compromise with glasses
Of Okinawa awamori over ice
Another international dispute settled.

Cabin Serendip, Okinawa
Summer 2001

 

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.

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

Battle of Okinawa 4

TWO GOOD LEGS

By David Allen

The American veteran
stood on the stage
tearful and trembling
as he talked, reliving
the hell that was Okinawa
five decades ago,
when he fought a relentless foe
and lost such young, good friends.

He tottered at the lectern
on his one good leg
and, as he tearfully
finished and turned to leave,
he dropped his cane.

As he stumbled
and began to fall,
a hand reached out
from behind and
grabbed his arm
and he turned to look
at his helper.

One of the Japanese veterans
had hobbled to his side
and, throwing down the crutch
that aided his one-legged stride,
said, in heavily accented English,
“Here, friend, let me be your other leg.”

And they walked away
arm in arm off the stage,
comrades in survival. 

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.

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.

sunset5

Sunset, Okinawa Japan , Dec. 31, 1999.

THE FOREVER WAR
By David Allen

At the turn of the century
my love and I watched the sun set
one last time and marveled
at the cloud formation that
appeared as a giant anvil.
I wondered then if it was a sign
announcing the last century’s swords
were to be beaten into plowshares,
greeting an age of peace.

Now, some 15 years later,
I know the answer.
The anvil was to shape
even more swords
for what is becoming
a century of endless conflict.

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.

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

 

 

banana spider1

THE BIG BLACK HAIRY SPIDER
By David Allen

The big black hairy spider
Crawled up the water spout
Then she jumped up to a tree limb
Spinning her silk thread out
And before the day was over
Her silver cobweb was done
And the flies and other insects
Were caught in the web she spun.

But the spiders’ work of art
Are more than insect traps
Okinawans say banana spiders
Can the weather forecast
Giant cobwebs spun low
Mean typhoon winds will blow
And the silken strands spun high
Foretell calm and clear blue skies.

My second book of poetry, “(more)’ is now available on Amazon Kindle. The paperback edition should be available in two weeks. Order your copy today!

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

9-11 1

TYPHOON AND TERROR
By David Allen

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 canceled 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 a terrorist attack.

Meanwhile, 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:

      9/11

          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.

This is a new poem from my second book of poetry, “(more).”  

It is now available on Amazon Kindle. The paperback edition should be available in two weeks. Order your copy today!

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


									

Cover

ACCEPTANCE

Flying over the pacific
is never peaceful –
I return to the problems
I left behind when I fled
to the East.

The woman sitting next to me
strikes up a conversation,
she’s the mother of a Marine
assigned to Okinawa
and is returning after a visit
to her first granddaughter.
“She is healthy,
God bless,” she declares.
And this woman’s husband
has a successful electrical business
in St. Louis — “God Bless!” — and life,
“Praise the Lord!”
Is good.

Somewhere in the conversation
I mention I am going to Indiana
for the birth of my second grandchild
and a brief trek to New York
to tout my new book of poetry.

She asks to look at the book
and I find one in my bag,
and, as she reads, I watch
out of the corner of my eye,
pretending to read a magazine
while trying to fathom
her reaction to my poems.
My blood is all over the pages.

I spot her reading
the one about another flight
and the religious Filipina
and scientific Japanese student
sitting next to me, the dirty old man poet
reading Bukowski and dreaming
of smooth, creamy white thighs,
and I wonder what my new seatmate
is thinking.

When she is finished
she mentions the poems are
“interesting,” and handing
the book back asks –
“Have you accepted Jesus
as your personal savior?”

I smile, realizing the conversation is
about to end and answer,
“I tried several times
but he never accepted me.”

And we slept in silence
the rest of the flight.
                                              by David Allen

 

 

Like my poetry? Then buy my book, “The Story So Far,” published by Writers Ink Press, Long Island, N.Y. You can find it on Amazon.com (http://www.amazon.com/Story-So-Far-David-Allen/dp/0925062480/ref=sr_1_13?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1397184666&sr=1-13&keywords=the+story+so+far) in paperback and Kindle formats, or by sending me $10 at:

David Allen
803 Avalon Lane
Chesterfield, IN 46017