Posts Tagged ‘poems’

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SUNRISE IN AMERICA 
By David Allen

I am waiting for sunrise in America
after this dark, broken night, 
where democracy’s been pummeled
by the clown chief’s rubber mallet
and narcissistic scrawls on edicts
that devastate social programs
and reward the rich elite.

I am waiting for sunrise in America
to shine on the nation’s capital,
where swamp creatures swim laps
around the White House and Senate,
where multitudes hurl protest chants
at their representatives’ deaf ears
and any change for the good is pending.

I am waiting for sunrise in America 
the morning after votes are cast,
to see if the false prince falls
or is enshrined as our new king
bringing on the darker night  and fog,
smothering  what’s left of our  freedoms.

………………………………

This poem is one of three poems of mine published in the fantastic Polk Street Review.

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LITTLE HAS CHANGED
By David Allen

Back in 1971, I  was a member 
of Vietnam Vets Against the War
standing between two cops, 
hands on my head in surrender, 
getting ready to be carted off to jail
for sitting on the Supreme Court steps.

And now we’re at the dawn of 2020
with another crooked president
and our troops involved in the Forever War.

So, nothing’s changed, 
except for my balding head
and aged aching back,
leaving me wondering.
Should I sit on those steps again 
or will true change take more
than protests and votes?

The Last Leaf

Posted: January 5, 2020 in Poetry
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Photo by D.H.Allen

THE LAST LEAF
By David Allen 

I am the last leaf, 
the last on the bough.
Brown and brittle,
I’ve taken a vow
to mourn for my more 
colorful friends
who took the plunge
to drift to the ground.
I saw them settle
into piles on the lawn, 
where they were raked or rotted, 
no matter, they’re gone. 
And as the days drift by,
I keep watch on a few
other lonely leaves, 
wondering who
will be the last to fall.

Shoe Pile

Posted: August 4, 2019 in Poetry
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SHOE PILE
By David Allen

I saw a pile of shoes tonight
On the TV news,
And cried the tears
I thought had dried
From crying in the early morn.

At 3 a.m. I awoke to pee
And glanced at the tv
I keep on to drown
My ear’s tinnitus roar.
I wished I had stayed
On that inner ear shore
Instead of discovering
Another mass shooting
Tore up an American town.

The bodies were blurred
And I finally slept,
My body aching,
Feeling the pain
Of the survivors.
But 13 hours later
The news did not censor
The pile of shoes left
By the dead and the fleeing.

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My wife and our three Okinawan grandkids in the ICU Waiting Room hoping for good news about their Dad.

ICU WAITING ROOM
By David Allen

It’s the waiting
that gets to me.
Watching the unresponsive
body on the intensive care bed,
multiple tubes inserted
into veins, nose, mouth, and brain.
Hoping for a raised thumb
or hand clutching mine.
But he sleeps a drugged rest
and I shuffle to the waiting room.

Sitting with family and friends.
We’re running out of caring talk.
Some check smart phones
for word from the outside world.
I listen to the prayer circle
in the next family space.
A minister prays for Jesus
to intercede.

In another space, a tv plays
a hospital show. The sound is muted,
but blood clearly drenches victims of a car crash.
It makes me scratch my head.
Watch a hospital fiction while
the real drama plays out
in a dozen rooms down the hall?

There’s a lot going on
in the waiting room.
A young girl combs
her Barbie’s hair,
while her brothers
play with plastic Xmen.
Their mother is curled up
asleep in a recliner.
Behind me, a bottle of soda
is dispensed with a bang
from a drink machine.
Three middle aged men
in black biker vests
look for a seat, find none,
and walk away.

It’s the waiting that gets to you.
How long should you stay
until you feel like you paid
your respects, prayed
and delivered words of caring?
Even though you’re not sure
if they are heard?
Only to drive home to wait again
in more familiar surroundings,
until it’s time to drive back
and wait some more.

ROYAL BABY

ROYALTY
By David Allen

Why do Americans
spend so much time
enraptured by British Royalty?
Baby princes and princesses
take up 5 minutes of the nightly news,
pushing some local story
out of the night’s line up.
And who cares
if the Queen Mother
had a fall and stubbed her toe?
Didn’t we fight two wars against these
born to rule and wealth assholes?
Screw them.
(Hell we have our own
entitled rich to take on.)
So, you want to defend royalty?
Put up your dukes!

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David Phones

Daily News
By David Allen

No news today
I’m on vacation;
slept late,
no daily work routine,
no papers to read,
no e-mail to answer,
no radio, TV or
Internet news reports
to slog through.
I’m free.

Until the cell phone rings.
An editor from a thousand
miles away says something
big happened today,
can I drop the nothing
I am doing and log-on?
Make some phone calls?
Get some reaction,
find some local color,
something new to feed
the copy beast?
Can I crank out something
for the next news cycle?

Sure, I say, what the hell,
maybe nothing will happen
tomorrow.

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BAWLING FOR COLUMBINE
(Aurora, Phoenix, Oak Creek, Newtown, and Parkland)

“From my cold dead hands,”
Moses spoke, raising his gun,
the angels shuddered.

 

NOTE: This week’s gathering of the Gun Nuts — I mean the National Rifle Association — in Indianapolis sent me back to this poem I wrote after watching Charlton Heston speak at an NRA convention shortly after the Columbine High Massacre 20 years ago.

NOTRE DAME

HISTORY BURNS
By David Allen

The past went up in flames last night
lighting up the Paris sky.
A pyre birthing a billowing plume of smoke
as eight centuries of human religious
and engineering history rose to heaven
as bystanders sang sad hymns.

An accident during renovation
resulted in the devastation
and only the massive stone outer walls
with flying buttresses survived.
The gross gargoyles perched on the walls,
protecting the Gothic treasure from outside forces,
failed to scare away the danger from within.

Destruction of the famous place of prayer
preyed on the hearts of those who watched
in person or a world away glued to their TVs.
An ocean away, Americans cried and flooded
social media with their photo memories
of grander days visiting the world’s most famous church.
“Our Lady of Paris is in flames,” the French President cried.
“It’s sad to see this part of us has burned.”

The architectural wonder has seen fire and destruction in the past —
Protestant factions vandalized it several times,
smashing stained glass windows and ripping heads off statues.
And in the wake of the French Revolution, it was used
as a sanctuary and food warehouse for the poor.
But it was always rebuilt and rose in stature as a World Heritage site.
Officials shook their heads when the flames were doused,
announcing they would not know for weeks
what art treasures and religious relics were lost or
whether the cathedral would ever rise from the ashes.

How ironic the fire came during the Holy Easter week.

FESTIVAL OF TOMBS

Posted: April 6, 2019 in Poetry
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FESTIVAL OF TOMBS
By David Allen

I love festivals and have attended many
from the most famous, Woodstock
a weekend of music, love, and highs,
to booths of pioneer crafts,
delicious Midwest treats and trappers tents
at Fort Wayne’s Johnny Appleseed celebration.
But the one event that impressed me the most
was the annual “Shimi” celebration of life
at Okinawa family tombs.

It’s a Spring cleaning of the soul.
In April families can be seen hard at work
neatening the areas around large tombs,
many shaped like a turtle’s back,
preparing for a weekend ceremony
to honor the dead.

It’s not the quiet, reverential scene you might expect.
Instead, they are picnics, blankets piled high with traditional
Okinawan food, cold drinks, and awamori, the island’s rice wine.
Children laugh and play as relatives catch up on the year
After a ceremony that includes prayers and offerings
of food, drinks, and scraps of burned money
left for the deceased to use during the coming year,
the lilt of a sanshin, the island’s three-stringed banjo, fills the air
along with folk songs sung in the local dialect.

Many tombs, which contain the dried bones of the dead, are centuries old.
The turtleback shape dates back to the island’s glory days and trade with China,
where they represented the turtle’s long lives.
Others believe the shape is a woman’s womb,
from which everyone is born and eventually returns.
Decades ago the tombs provided shelter from the storm of war.

The Shimi gatherings are times of joy, families honoring folks gone by
Who they believe watch out for them and prepare the way for the next life.
It became my favorite fest, except, perhaps, the colorful parade of prostitutes,
I mean, gifted geisha gals –In Naha’s ancient “comfort zone”
For sailors far from home.

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