Posts Tagged ‘romance’


By David Allen

Thirty years together
You’re my pearl
Three decades
Lasting under pressure
We’ve seen our share
And, like a pearl,
We’ve lasted.

It’s been a whirl
Of a ride, my Pearl.
Major moves spanning a sea
Typhoons and earthquakes
(and a silly tsunami).
Nearly two decades of tropical sand
Until medical challenges sent us again
To Midwest winters
Warmed by new friends
And grandkids .

We are soulmates
Comforting each other
With a smile
A touch, a kiss,
And, like pearls,
We’re solid, strong,
Lasting, looking forward
From these decades
To the next.






Women dancing by Paul Cumes


 As the moon makes its circuit in the sky
I’m stalking my memory,
reviewing my history
trapping photos where they lie,
stills of how life used to be,
then suddenly they move towards me.

I see Gayle rise from her coffin bed,
as Mona smiles in innocence
love letters burn a harsh incense
as someone hurls a hammer at my head.
Sukie grasps a cock in her bloody hand,
waving it like some magician’s wand,
while Janie Jukebox dances gracelessly
and the wand’s waved in my face.

As the moon makes its circuit through the sky
frozen fingers at the typewriter
can’t track words across the white,
ruins of  lives before me lie
and writhe and come to life.

Diane is running for the coast
as D.C. Jane shouts angrily
at the illusions of love’s ghost,
screaming, “you should have loved me the most!’
Susie dead and buried long ago,
ties a ribbon in her hair,
Norma helps her with the bow,
turns to me and says what I should have known.
“You were okay in your time,
but Susie’s mine,  I love
the little girls in their prime.”

As the moon makes its circuit in the sky,
defenseless, I stand my ground,
I’ve forgotten how to run.
My weary eyes refuse to close
though I know I’m seeing lies.

Loraine positions boys along the wall
telling sister Shirley to choose her mate
with a good squeeze to his balls.
They laugh as I limp away, try to flee
shouting school yard obscentieies.

As the moon makes its circuit in the sky,
matted hair dripping beads of sweat,
I’m afraid it’s not over yet,
as clearer, closer figures focus in my eyes.

Anne says platonic love’s the way to go,
and we’ve got “Old Friends” to show
for all the years we spent close
never taking off our clothes.
A kiss and hug was as far as we could ever go.
And Jackie, sexy, small, with voice that’s hoarse,
we shared some other kind of intercourse
all on the dance hall  floor.
Carrot diet stained fingers drove me away,
she was too healthy for my own good that day.

As the moon makes its circuit in the sky
furrows crease my brow,
I’m really in for it now,
as Nora calls on radio beams, it seems
our motel dreams were all we had.
When it came to the end, we remained friends
and she stayed with her boy and his dad.

As the moon makes its circuit in the sky,
I long for the sunrise, I await
for the final surprise as more shadows stalk my way.
Cathy was a conduit for the kids,
seven years, seven months
seven days were enough,
divorce was the thing
for a marriage sans rings
and a passionless love.

Other shadows come close,
but the one I love most,
I don’t have to dream.
When I awake she’ll be there,
I’m aware this is not what it seems.

As the moon cedes the sky to the sun
the players step out of their roles,
laugh as they bow and start to sing —
“As the moon circuits the sky,
you are just our memory,
and we are more than happy to be
the shades of your strange dream.
We are wandering lives that crossed yours once
as the moon made its ride through the sky.”

                                                            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 ( in paperback and Kindle formats, or by sending me $10 at:

David Allen
803 Avalon Lane
Chesterfield, IN 46017



Posted: May 19, 2014 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , ,



the darkness closes in
as the theater spills its patrons
into the street.
The last act is finished,
the curtain is down,
no fanfare,
no standing ovation,
mild applause.
The reviews, save the one
from the underground rag,
were all bad.

The players will look
for new work in the morning.
The theater will house
a new playwright’s child.

I leave meekly out the stage entrance
into the alley —
always the alley —
overflowing garbage cans
stray cats
stench of vomit.

You join the crowd
push your way out into the street,
with its bright lights, laughter
smell of hot pretzels,
carnival air.

The crowd moves past the alley
where my unnoticed shadow climbs
a fire escape to a small
cluttered room
to study far into the morning,
reviewing the mistakes
of my past performance,
practicing my new lines.

By David Allen