Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

Daffodil

Posted: February 8, 2019 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Daffodils

DAFFODIL
By David Allen

As a flower
I’m a daffodil
(And not just because
I am a bit daffy.)
I am the Lent Lily,
the cheerful jonquil,
sign of Winter’s end,
a sunny yellow symbol
of hope that chases away
the cancer of the cold,
grey season.
My nodding head
creating,
inspiring,
never giving up
on my dreams.

 

english poem recitation 17

Delhi Public School English Poetry Competition

DON’T LET YOUR BABIES GROW UP TO BE POETS
By David Allen

Poets aren’t easy to love ‘cause they’re out of control
spending time rhyming, free versing and cursing  
when the lines that they write refuse to take hold.
They wear faded black sweaters and tattered torn blue jeans
and frequent the town’s cheap bar scene
and their ink-stained pages never quite translate
to what it was they had set out to mean.

Mamas  don’t let your babies grow up to be poets
someone who’ll wield a wild pen
scrawling about the starts and ends
and all of life’s in-betweens.

Mamas don’t let your babies grow up to be poets
someone whose pockets have nothing but lint
whose loves are counted as who came and went
who relish dethroning all your kings and queens.

Mamas don’t let your babies grow up to be poets
they’ll tell all the stories you’d rather keep buried
about phone calls at midnight, the way you got married
and the beauty marks hidden from public display.

Poets are zany odd outcasts who shun the “in” crowd
they frequent back alley bars and cheap coffee dives,
imbibing and reading their poems out loud.
They carry torn notebooks they fill on lonely cold nights,
pen scrawls and typed walls of stanzas they pray
will gel and some day find meaning that’s right.

 

NOTE: I wrote this for a lovely poet couple expecting their first baby. It’s based on the country tune “Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys.”

XMAS APOCALYPSE 2
From the movie “I’m Dreaming of a White Doomsday”

CHRISTMAS APOCALYPSE
By David Allen

‘Twas the night before Christmas
and all through the house
the Smiths were so hungry
they could eat a mouse.
They had sneered at predictions
the world’s end would come
and now that it had they
wish they had made some

Preparations for no power
for no water, food, heat
or armed themselves against looters
who now ruled the streets.
They huddled in their basement
knowing Santa lost his way
and sanity expired
that Apocalyptic day.

The day the Mayans predicted
and Nostradamus confirmed;
the day the meteors came
and civilization was burned.
The day the sun sent a pulse
that killed manmade machines;
when Yosemite blew
and the heavens screamed.

The day all the fish boiled
in magma hot seas
and a plague swept the globe
with some unknown disease.
The day those in churches waited
for the coming of Christ,
who never did make it
although they prayed twice.

The day governments fell
and death tolls rose higher;
the day anarchy reigned;
of uncontrollable fires.
The Smith’s shivered in fear
as Christmas Day came
wondering why this had happened
and who was to blame.

Unable to Help

Posted: November 30, 2018 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , ,

114-1461_IMG

UNABLE TO HELP
By David Allen

She stood alone on a deserted beach
shoulders slumped, looking out over the still sea.
Nothing moved and the blazing summer sun
beat down on her unprotected brow.
She was searching for something, someone.
I wanted to run to her, tell her the weary waves
would not always be empty, surely her lover,
son, or savior, would return some day.
But I could not.
Instead, I moved my gaze
from the decades-old painting
in a weathered frame
and returned my attention
to the TV show as the commercial
that distracted me ended.

Leaves Laughing

Posted: September 30, 2018 in Poetry
Tags: , , ,

Leaves

 

LEAVES LAUGHING
By David Allen

The leaves are laughing at me
They do this every fall
They know I don’t like raking
So on my lawn they sprawl
Regaling in their new colors
Yellows, reds, and browns
Crackling as October winds
Spread them all around.

But I know I will laugh last
I can outwait their glee
Their glory time’s not timeless
As they dance around the trees
Soon Winter snows will blanket
And cover them in the ground
And by the Spring a squishy mess
Is all that will be found.

 
Be sure to buy my books “The Story So Far” and “(more)” both available on Amazon.

https://www.amazon.com/David-Allen/e/B00DT6TM7Y?ref_=pe_1724030_132998060

My Main Squeeze

Posted: September 19, 2018 in Poetry
Tags: , , , ,

12744366_10156628485165637_168617414613065657_n

MY MAIN SQUEEZE
By David Allen

Write about what I love?
This is what I love —
writing, sharing poetry
with fellow poets
suffering from the same disease;
the need to get it all out
to empty my soul,
pushing pen to paper,
scrawling the scenes,
burning  my eyes,
typing tenses onto a screen,
screaming for attention,
airing it for all those near to hear.

Listen up!
This is who I am.
Here’s my soul, take a look.
Read into it what you will,
it doesn’t matter to me.
I’m drifting away to some other shore,
riding waves of words.

This all started in grade school
copycatting Dr. Seuss
and moving on to
writing my own pop songs
sung on lonesome bike rides
delivering the news;
teen years spent trying
out the unrhymed rhythms of The Beats
and some strung out sot delivering
the meanings of roach motel nights;
poems to loves  on far-off shores
as I sailed the Caribbean sea;
anti-war chants and drug-induced rants;
lines filling cheap literary rags;
marginal thoughts in reporter’s notebooks;
words shared in Far Eastern watering holes.

Always reveling in the outsider
status being a poet brings.
We are different from other writers.
There’s no money in poetry,
it’s all about laying it all out,
comforting the miserable,
slapping around the comfortable.
These words,
these lines,
they’re who I am.
Poems are my main squeeze.

 

The Eat Write Cafe

Posted: September 13, 2018 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , ,

davidreads

David Allen reads at The Eat Write Cafe

Twenty years ago I stepped into a basement bar on Okinawa and was transformed. I was there to write a story about an Open Mic night run by Americans connected to the large military presence on the island. I was the Okinawa News Bureau Chief for Stars and Stripes. That night started my foray into public readings of my own work.

Thanks Amy and Michael!

Pacific Stars and Stripes
Tuesday, September 15, 1998

Bar gives Kadena muses a
              place to be heard

              Traveling poets tell your tales
              wherever you go.
              Don’t let them tell you no.
              Don’t think it’s better to
              hide with a pad of paper
              and ink on your hands
              than to share your souls
              with the world.
              Scream, pray, love, write
              and be true to the words.
              We are poets, we are
              a single voice of power.
              Scream out with me
              and be heard!
– Michael Monroe

               By DAVID ALLEN
              Stripes Okinawa Bureau Chief

              OKINAWA CITY, Japan — This is a definite departure from the normal nighttime entertainment on Okinawa’s infamous Gate 2 Street.
              

               In the snug basement bar called “Jack Nasty’s Neanderthal,”
              well known for its hard-driving rock ‘n’ roll every weekend
              night, a transformation takes place on the first Saturday of
              the month.

              You wouldn’t guess it at first. Just after dark, some of the
              street’s clubs begin to open. The bar girls with their high and
              tight skirts still linger on benches in the humid, subtropical
              night, trying to lure young American servicemen upstairs for a drink.

              It could be any street outside any gate of any military
              base in the world.

               But on this street outside Kadena Air Base’s Gate 2,
              something else is happening. There’s another kind of crowd
              descending into Jack’s. The place still smells a bit moldy, and
              the drinks are still a cheap 500 yen, but up there on the stage
              are people who have poured their souls onto a page.

              At 7:30 p.m. on the first Saturday of the month (and the third
              Saturday just down the street at “The Jet”), this cozy club
              becomes the “Eat Write Cafe Traveling Poets-Society.”
              They’re open-mike nights. Take your scrawled notes in
              abused notebooks, typewritten pages of untamed poetry,
              scraps of rhyme on restaurant napkins and bring them on
              down to the Eat Write. The crowd’s hungry for what you
              have to say.

              This is poet Amy Love’s dream and Michael Monroe’s
              newfound calling.

              “I had this vision 10 years ago when I was teaching on
              Guam,” said Love, a former English teacher at the University
              of Maryland. “I always felt divided between the academic
              world and something else. It took a while to realize what I
              wanted was to live poetry full time.”

              The readings began in the living room of her home in
              Yamauchi, but it wasn’t public enough. She needed to bring
              poetry to the people.

              “One midnight I was wandering around the neighborhood,
              and I came across a coffee shop called the Cafe Zen,” Love
              said. “We started there in April or May of ’97. But it was too
              small; we were discovering a lot of people on Okinawa were
              into poetry. They liked to write, read and listen, but there
              was no place to go with it.”

              It wasn’t until she sponsored a one-night-only poetry reading
              at the USO on Camp Schwab, however, that she realized
              just how large the audience was for poetry on Okinawa.

              “I went up on this stage and started to read to this captive
              audience of about 60 Marines who had been watching
              movies,” Love said. “The response was so overwhelming.
              They were listening; some of the guys ran out of the place
              and came back with poems in their hands, stuff they had
              been keeping quiet about. I gave them the mike. It was
              beautiful.

              “Poetry is not what you think – that’s my message,” she said.
              “So many of us got turned off from poetry in school. But the
              need to be heard, to be understood is within all of us. The
              muse is there. So, I started passing around fliers announcing
              the Eat Write Cafe. That’s when I changed my name to Amy
              Love, to make what I was doing totally distinct from my
              teaching. I didn’t want to rely on the students.”

              She’s also realized after 13 years that teaching was
              “complete insanity, trying to fit in where I didn’t belong.” She
              left her teaching post at the University of Maryland this
              spring.

              “It’s like what Ginsberg wrote in ‘Howl’,” the former Anne
              Tibbets said. “‘I saw the best minds of my generation
              destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked / dragging
              themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for a
              fix. . .'”

             The fix was poetry. “So many people have that creative side
              to them, but it’s stifled,” she said. “And they stuff it away
              deep inside them. After all, you can’t make any money at it.
              So, it’s on a low flame, burning you up inside. What the Eat
              Write does is provide an outlet.”

              Love decided to take poetry to where the troops are –
              Saturday nights on Gate 2 Street.

              It took a bar owner with the poetic one word name,
              Katchan, to make it a reality. Katchan, who, with long black
              hair and chest-length bushy beard, looks imposing until he
              breaks into a toothy grin, immediately warmed to the idea of
              turning his club, Jack Nasty’s, into a once-a-month Eat Write
              Cafe.

              “I told Amy I like poetry,” Katchan, an Okinawan, said. “I
              have my own band, the Katsen Band, that plays here every
              weekend night after 10. Poetry, music, it all comes from the
              same place – the heart.”

              The nights at Nasty’s can be raw. Anything goes on the stage
              illuminated only by a green neon light, the blue flicker of
              empty TV screens and a few dim lamps. The walls are
              plastered with one-dollar bills signed by long-gone GIs; a
              pair of manikin legs and a wooden wagon wheel stick out
              from a loft above the stage.

              On any night, the poetry ranges from the sophomoric rhymes
              of a young woman longing for love, to angry outlashes at the
              world that may bring to mind the early works of Allen
              Ginsberg or Jack Kerouac. The poets, many of them new to
              the art, are experimenting with style, substance, syntax and
              varying degrees of solemnity.

              These are unleashed feelings, sometimes laced with humor,
              just to break the mood.

              “It doesn’t matter how polished the person is,” Love said.
              “Letting people have their voice is more important than
              cutting somebody off.”

              The readings on Gate 2 Street began last January and show
              no signs of stopping. On a recent night, about 30 people
              listened to a variety of poems.

              A Special Forces trooper with bulging biceps and
              short-cropped hair gave the mike over to a woman wearing
              argyle socks and a thigh-length pleated plaid skirt.

              Michael Monroe, who serves as a Marine during the day
              under a different name, is the master of ceremonies. He took
              over after Love left for the States earlier this month. She
              plans to travel the United States with her 5-year-old
              daughter, Ginger, tramping and setting up other Eat Write
              Cafes as she goes.

              “The plan is to get a small camper so we can live in it and
              drive around,” she said a few weeks before she departed.
              “It’s kind of scary to give up a good job and all, but poetry is
              my life now. I’ve got to live it.

              “We have to take poetry to the people, renew the oral
              tradition,” Love said. “We’re going to the small cities, towns,
              places where the rebirth of poetry is not already happening.”

              Love said she’d like to come back to Okinawa some day,
              maybe open a club of her own with open mike every night.

              Meanwhile, Monroe carries the torch.

              “I’d been writing in the closet until Amy came along and
              brought me out,” Monroe said. “I didn’t know there was
              something like this out there. It was an awakening.”

              Monroe, a Marine sergeant and a native of Brooklyn, is a
              natural MC. Instead of calling for the poets according to
              their place on the sign-up sheet, he weaves a pattern,
              knowing that the stage-struck Marine with the machine-gun
              patter is the perfect follow for the intensely shy young airman
              from Kadena Air Base, who just bared her soul for the first
              time on any stage.

              “You’re liable to hear anything – from 18th-century romantic
              ideals to the poetry of the Beats, to some very modern and
              intense surrealism,” Monroe said. “I love to mix it up.

              “I found I was a natural up there,” he said. “I knew if Amy
              ever left, I’d have to step into the vacuum to keep it going.”

              Midway through the nights at Jack Nasty’s, young
              servicemen come down the steep stairs looking for a few
              cold beers and a bar girl or two to sit on their laps. Most
              peer around the corner of the stairs, see the poets on stage
              and realize it’s not their scene.

              But a few descend, discovering something new.

              “That’s what I love about this,” Monroe said. “Having so
              many people from so many diverse backgrounds come in
              and listen and read – it makes my mouth water. I love being
              there, seeing the response on people’s faces. Seeing them get
              Seeing them get it. It’s all about being up there and being heard.”

              Poets need to be heard.”

My Navigator

Posted: September 4, 2018 in Poetry
Tags: , , , ,

MISC PIX 2 069

MY NAVIGATOR
By David Allen

It’s been 30 years
and I have only now realized my love, my wife,
is more than my muse and soulmate.
She is also my navigator.

Like our car rides in the country,
where she sits next to me,
her hands holding tight to the fear post
as I sometimes stray too far to the curb,
or forget to stop at a light,
she settles in as I maneuver
the twists and turns of our life.

She endures the plot twists
and miscues, giving directions
that help me to somehow
stay on course for the future we both
deserve – as many more loving years
together as we wish.

She helps set the course,
proving love does exist for those
whose chosen path is
endless love.

Ring? Ring?

Posted: July 24, 2018 in Poetry
Tags: , , ,

07work5

Ring? Ring?
By David Allen

I don’t know why they keep calling me
I never buy anything by phone
But several times a day
Bored, poorly paid salesmen call
Offering to sell me something
They swear I need
Only, I don’t.

Blocking their numbers don’t work
They have a system of not just randomly calling people
But also of hiding the numbers they are calling from
Someone must know I never buy anything
They must keep records
I don’t understand why they call.

But I don’t angrily hang up
Or yell, or curse them to hell
The poor guys (or gals) at the other end
Are just doing their job
It’s not personal.

So, I answer the call from U.S. Pharmacy
“You’re selling pharmaceuticals to improve
My love life?” I say. “Sorry, I can assure you
There’s no problem down there
Believe me. Love? I’m always up for it”

Another caller says he’s from a Medicare
Approved provider of back braces
No thanks!” I exclaim. “I’d love to talk,
But I need to get ready for my marathon”
A Wall Street bank phone-banker asks
How much equity I have in my home.

He can arrange an assessment.
“Great, but can you come in a few weeks?
I have some guys in the basement now
Getting rid of mold and a termite control guy
Is scheduled for next week,” I say
“Maybe he could come after they
Reinforce my home’s foundation?”
Sometimes it’s not until I mention the police raid
On the crack house across the street that
They end their call.

I don’t know why they keep calling
I never buy anything
Or… maybe they have another purpose
Maybe they’re lonely and need a break from
The clicks and curses that fill their bored days
Maybe my name’s on a list that says
“For a laugh call …”

1013956_10151939744488403_1205900550_n

FOR YOU SCAREDYCATS
By David Allen

It’s Friday the 13th
So what?
“What, me worry?”
Has been my life’s theme
Ever since my Aunt Jessie
Gave me an issue of Mad Magazine
Back when I was still in grade school.
So, superstitious? Me?
Bah! In the “Step on a Crack” game
I stepped on every one
And my mother was backache free
Into her 70s.

(Now , it’s true she had a pain in the neck –
Me! Ever since I learned to walk.
And many others have dubbed me
That in the long decades since.)

So, superstitious?
Give me a ladder to walk under
And a black cat’s path to cross.
Why, I’d volunteer to be third
On a match if I smoked.
Phooey on all you superstitious fools!
If I lived in an apartment tower
I’d pick the 13th floor.
Hell, the house I live in now
Is the last on the left on a dead end street,
Where the sidewalk ends,
With dark, thick woods out back.
The perfect place for a horror story.