Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

bugshirt

 

BATTLING THE BUG
By David Allen

We’re hunkered down inside our homes
while Covid 19 is running wild.
The death count’s mounting up
while the President keeps lying.
I’m looking for the Gorilla Glue,
gonna paste my doors and windows,
make sure the bug stays outside
while I watch the horror news
and binge-watch apocalypse movies.
And just to stay safe,
If the bug makes it through a crack
I hope to slow its deathly attack
with my welcoming black bug shirt. 

I’m Afraid to Touch Her

Posted: March 27, 2020 in Poetry
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SLEEPER

 

I’m Afraid to Touch Her 
By David Allen

I’m afraid to touch her.
Sometimes the MS pain’s so bad
she lies in bed all day and wonders
whether life is really worth it all.

I’m afraid to touch her.
I want to tell her it’s okay,
the pain has always briefly eased,
yet now it’s returned much worse.

I’m afraid to touch her.
There’s no telling where next it will hurt,
we can kiss and hug, but not too hard.
There’s no cure for what pains her every day.

I’m afraid to touch her.

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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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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.
 

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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.

My New Pen

Posted: December 28, 2019 in Poetry
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MY NEW PEN
By David Allen 

Is there a difference 
between writing a poem
with a fountain pen
instead of a ballpoint?
Will the words 
be more polished?
More elegant?
Or will I have to
shake it up more
to get the lines to flow?
The pen demanding 
more ink, like opening a vein?
Is a ballpoint pen
simply more mundane?
If so, what about poems
born from platens
or electronic bytes?
Are they too mechanical?
Too removed from emotion?
I wonder as I write. 

 

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THANKSGIVING’S STAIN
By David Allen

Like many holidays,
Thanksgiving has a dark side.
Much like Columbus Day.
Don’t get me wrong,
I love the idea of getting family 
and friends together for an Autumnal feast 
to celebrate surviving another year.
That was the reason for the gathering
of Indians and pilgrims that day
some 398 years ago.
The Pilgrims had survived a horrendous year.

Of the 102 who survived the Mayflower’s trip,
only 51 survived the first winter — 
22 men, 25 children, and 4 women. 
75 percent of the women had died.
The local Indian tribe, the Wampanoag,
helped that first year, showing the Pilgrims
how to farm the New World and 90 of them joined
in the English tradition of celebrating the Fall harvest. 

The tribe was repaid over the next 50 years
With murders and massacres.
In 1675, their situation was so dire,
many of them joined in an uprising
called King Philip’s War
The Colonists were too strong by then
And another 40 percent of the tribe were killed.
Many of the Male Indian survivors
were sold into slavery in the Caribbean,
their women and children became farm 
and house slaves in New England.

I doubt many of their descendants
Think of this holiday as very thankful.

 

THANKS, NO THANKS

Posted: November 22, 2019 in Poetry
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THANKS, NO THANKS
By David Allen

It’s late November again
Thanksgiving’s at hand
A time to feast with family and friends;
Time to reflect and to give thanks.

I’m giving thanks that my spine
Survived another knifeless year,
Though my back, racked by rods
And pins, bent my back a bit
and stole inches from my height. 

I am thankful for my muse, my wife,
We’ve survived another year –
Twenty-nine more than the two she promised
When we first exchanged our vows.

“I’ll give you two years, Allen, “she said
The day she agreed to marry me.
“So you better straighten up!” she warned.”
I never did and yet, she still stands by my side.

And let’s not forget to thank
My Hoosier poet friends
For giving me an outlet for 
My observations on life. 
Open mics and scribe gatherings 
Fill my nights, hopefully
Encouraging new poets 
To follow this path.

But this season also leaves me
Thinking of things I am not thankful for.
Mass deaths in shootings in schools and churches,
The rise of White Nationalism.
And attacks on our rights
In “The Land of the Free.”
Children torn from their parents
And thrown in cages because
They were born in some other country.
Soldiers and sailors discharged 
And flown to exile in countries
Even though they served us honorably.
A presidential liar whose graft knows no limits
Who daily commits crimes
His followers just brush away.

But I’m hopeful next year
Will overflow with thanks
To new faces who erase
Trump and his thugs from our ranks.

House of Lies

Old Age

Posted: October 12, 2019 in Poetry
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(Stock Image)

OLD AGE
By David Allen

Bent posture
Grouchy nature
Prescription pill bottles
Wild walking waddles.

Memory lapses
Cheap reading glasses
Hair shedding
Tummy spreading.

Cane walking
Unsteady talking
Teeth in a glass
Passing much gas.

Spinal hardware
Keys are not there
Midnight pee calls
Numbing pratfalls.

Artery stents
Obscene vents
Diner discounts
Joint bank accounts.

Skin splotches
Year’s end notches
TV bingeing
X-ray cringing.

Children have grown
Remortgaged home
Much makes me enraged
This must be old age.