 | David Allen on Fishing for Answers |
| David Allen on Fishing for Answers |
 | Ray on Fishing for Answers |
 | Donald Gallus DPC US… on Fishing for Answers |
| David Allen on Smooth Operation |
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.
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.
https://squareup.com/store/CEArts/item/the-polk-street-review-2?t=modal-fb
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.
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?
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
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.
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
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.
(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.
Words Gone
By David Allen
The words were gone.
The poet sulked at his desk,
staring at the blank computer screen.
His Muse stood beside him,
sobbing while she stroked his neck.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” she said.
“I want to help you, but the words won’t come.
This is more than a simple writer’s block.
It’s more like the words absconded with the images,
the ideas are idle, blurry concepts just beyond reach.
I have failed you.”
“Don’t say that,” the Poet said,
turning to face his Muse.
“It’s not your fault.”
“It is,” she said.
“There’s too much darkness.
Too many things are piling up.
The words are suffocating under
the heap of today’s failures
and tomorrow’s fears.
I’m just not good for you.”
She turned and ran from the room.
The Poet muttered a few “damns” under his breath.
He wondered awhile whether to follow her.
Should he scrap the play
or go on to Act 2?
After a painfully slow minute,
he shook his head, then rose and left the room.
He climbed the stairs to their bedroom.
She sat cross-legged on the bed,
a pen in her right hand and a notepad on her lap.
“Look, I’m so…” he started.
But she cut him off, looking up,
Sadness and defeat contorted her face.
“So, did you come upstairs
To edit my suicide note?” she asked.
He walked to her side and kissed her cheek.
“No, just checking to make sure
you have no knives or pills up here,” he said.
His Muse’s frown turned into a slight smile.
“I just wish I was better at this,” she said.
“You are,” the Poet said as he left the room.
A few minutes later, he was back at the computer
typing slowly as a poem formed on the screen.
| David Allen on Fishing for Answers |
| David Allen on Fishing for Answers |
| Ray on Fishing for Answers |
| Donald Gallus DPC US… on Fishing for Answers |
| David Allen on Smooth Operation |
Type Dancing 