FISHING FOR ANSWERS By David Allen There’s a man I always see standing at the end of the pier when I take my lunch walk. He holds a long pole and occasionally casts the line into the bay. There's no bait on the hook. The creel at his feet is empty. Almost as empty as the look on his face. His eyes are fixed on the horizon. One day I asked him what he hoped to catch. Without a glance at me, he pulled his line out of the water and cast it back with a slight groan. “I’m fishing for answers,” he said. “I tried books, schools, the streets, and even turned to poetry. Nothing.” I felt bad for interrupting his search. But I had one more question. “Answers to what?” I asked. “Everything…nothing,” he said. I walked on as he recast his line. His search tormented me. Was there really something there in the cold, blue waters of life? The answer to everything and nothing? The answer hit me like a slap to the face. The search is the answer. I bought a fishing rod yesterday. There’s plenty of room on the pier. Care to join us?
Fishing for Answers
Posted: October 5, 2022 in PoetryTags: life meaning, Poetry; Fishing, searching
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Smooth Operation By David Allen Nurses sometimes make all the difference between worry and confidence you'll be all right. Despite a weird recovery after my fourth spinal operation, when I tripped on a cocktail of meds that threw me into a disjointed world, where dead friends visited my hospital room and doctors sought to study my rare condition, I began the fifth assault on my spine somehow sure operation, where the surgeon would make a four-inch slit in my back and scrape the bony growth exerting pressure on my nerves, and strengthening my spine with rods and pins, couldn’t be any worse. Any qualms I might have harbored were allayed by my recovery room nurse. She was young and perky and had a smile that destroyed any concern I might have. “My name is Tara,” she said. “And I’ll be with you before and after the procedure.“ (“Procedure” seems less threatening than surgery.) I relaxed and smiled when I read the card that she wore on her blouse. “How do you feel?” she asked. “Better than a minute ago,” I answered. “Tara, You’re gonna make my pain Gone With the Wind.” “That’s what I’m here for,” she said, My wife, laughed and told the nurse I was a punster and a poet and often made such strange observations. “A poet?” the nice nurse asked. “I wrote some in high school.” She shared what she learned to the sleep doc when I was wheeled into the operating room. “Oh yeah?” he asked, placing a rubber mask over my face. “Who’s your favorite poet?” “Today? Bukowski,” I said. “But don’t ask me why.” “I like the classics, Whitman and Frost,“ he said. “Now breathe in deeply.” I awoke several hours later with a new four-inch slit stitched over a decades-old scar. I smiled at a nurse hovering over me. I read her name name card on chest and laughed. “Destiny? “ I repeated her name. “Really?” She asked if there was anything she could for me. “Can you tell me what’s my destiny?”I quiped. She laughed. “Honey, I don’t even know my own destiny.” “Whew,” one of the voices in my head muttered. “This is going to a cakewalk.” And the voices argued throughout the night, over the meaning of a cakewalk.
UKRAINE By David Allen A man stands alone in front of a tank, delaying its deadly mission for a few minutes as bombs rain down on his Ukrainian town. A rabid dictator ordered this war to rebuild Imperial Russia and make him its newest Czar. Democracies pass resolutions to pick Russia’s pockets, each president lining up to wear Chamberlain’s old hat. It’s a repeat of when Hitler sought to take over land lost in the first world war. Now a 40-mile parade of tanks rumbled toward Kyiv, as the people ironically make Molotov cocktails to stubbornly resist. I wonder what former Soviet Bloc country Czar Putin will invade next.
Living Forever By David Allen I'm going to live forever. All I have to do is never take out the trash. Sound Weird? Well, I have it on good authority. One drunken night in New Orleans, lost and staggering through forgotten alleyways, my friend and I came upon a palm reader who charged two bucks to tell my future. “Well, here’s two bucks for you and…” “Five for the room?” she asked, smirking. I was stunned. “How did you know that was a line in one of my poems?” “I’m a seer,” she said. “Give me a hand.” She slowly traced the lines in my palm. “You’ll live to the ripe old age of 91,” she said. Really? Wow, I thought. I had seven more decades of rollicking, wild fun ahead of me. She released my hand and I gave her a tip. As I turned to leave and find a bar to celebrate, I heard her wildly cackling behind me. “It's then you’ll trip and hit your head on concrete stairs while taking out the trash!” Well, the Grim Reaper will have to wait. I swore right then to never take out the trash. That was decades ago. Now, excuse me, a film crew from a television show about hoarding is coming over.
HAPPY HOLIDAZE
Posted: December 24, 2021 in PoetryTags: Christmas, Hanukah, Holidaze, Kwanza, New Year, Saturnalia
HAPPY HOLIDAZE By David Allen Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, Kwanza, Hanukah, too, This is my holiday poem For you, you and you! Let’s remember this December Other reasons exist To wish a Festivus for the rest of us, No matter your bliss. And, speaking of bliss, This season marks when Buddha found his. Now, isn’t that Zen? And should we add Saturnalia To this season’s list? You see, that old Roman holiday Was the start of all this. For, one week in December The Romans gave a big bash Where everything was permitted, Like “The Purge,” thousands cast To get drunk, damage property, Injure strangers and friends One day history will tell us That’s where “Black Friday” begain. The holiday was so popular Early Catholics stole the date To lure pagans to their churches So they could seal their fate. “But War on Christmas is upon us,” The Faux News anchors scream, But look not only to Humanists For raising their spleen. Hardcore Christians, the Puritans Once took up the torch To ban Christmas hokum No day for their church. The reason for the season To me is just this – Another year’s over And we are still here That’s a reason to party To throw off our fears To look to the future With smiles, without tears To count all our blessings, Whatever that’s worth, Because we haven’t yet Killed our Mother Earth.
Pumpkin Prize
Posted: October 18, 2021 in PoetryTags: carved pumpkins, David Allen, Halloween, myth, poetry, pumpkins
Pumpkin Prize By David Allen I’m a bumpkin for pumpkins pies, bread, and pudding, and spice in my coffee on cool Autumn morns. As I drive around town I see them on stoops, stairs, and porches; gutted and carved in Halloween screams. I wonder if any of the gourd artists know the legend of Jack O’Lantern, the Irish drunkard and fast-talking conman who scammed Satan during a drinking game into freeing him from Hades. The centuries-old myth claims Jack didn’t realize the Pearly Gates were also locked for him and, forlorn, he begged Satan to take him back. Satan refused. But, admiring Jack’s evil, presented him an ember to place inside a hollowed-out pumpkin. A pumpkin prize to light Jack’s endless trek through the netherworld.
The First Leaf By David Allen I am the first leaf to fall, marking the way for my family to follow when the days cool and the trees evict them. Some drop straight down in a suicidal plunge, others find a breeze and swirl away in a last dance. Eventually we blanket the lawn. creating a colorful carpet until we shrivel and surrender to winter's woes.
TOBY TYLER By David Allen “See the elephants, see the clowns, see the county police shut the circus down” An editor once said my story ledes were pure poetry. And I was on a roll in Fort Wayne in 1986. I was responsible for kicking the Toby Tyler Circus out of town. and had tons of fun doing it. The small-time circus was slated to set up its tents in the city’s Coliseum parking lot.. But the penny-pinching pachyderm show had left a path of collapsing bleachers and broken bones in its wake.. “If the circus is coming to town it better stop by an insurance office first,” I chuckled as I wrote.. Citing lack of adequate insurance, the city balked and the one-ring sorry excuse for a great show searched for a new local venue. t finally found a farm lot just north of the city. “There was a bunch of midgets putting up a tent in my backyard,” a bewildered man who rented a house on the property said. The lot owner neglected to tell him the circus was coming. About 150 spectators saw the opening act before police closed the circus down. It left town that night So, yeah, I killed the circus, And all the clowns, elephants, lions, tigers, and bears. Oh my! NOTE: This one of three of my poems included in The Last Stanza Poetry Journal (6). It's a great quarterly anthology. Get your copy from Amazon.
Remembering
Posted: September 30, 2021 in PoetryTags: David Allen, elephant in the room, poetry, reporting
REMEMBERING By David Allen For decades I was the elephant in the room, jotting down what I saw and heard when I attended trials and responded to wrecks, fires, murders and mayhem.. I typed up what I saw and heard and editors splashed the stories across newspaper pages. We were the community’s memory. I spent 20 years reporting in the Far East. On the fiftieth anniversary of the War in the Pacific I interviewed scores of veterans, sharing their memories of those harrowing, island-hopping days. A decade ago I retired from newspapers and threw myself into poetry, remembering in verse all I experienced in a life full of words. NOTE: This is one of three poems of mine featured In the new issue of The Last Stanza Poetry Journal (Issue six). It's an excellent magazine. Get it at Amazon.com.
RIDING THE ELEPHANT
By David Allen
Thailand’s Sin City glowed at night,
neon signs lit Pattaya’s streets packed
with American sailors and Marines
who jostled European tourists seeking
drugs, booze and unbridled sex.
I was there to report on
joint military maneuvers,
but was struck silly
by the maneuvers of
the "Buy-Me-Drinky”' gals
dressed in schoolgirl uniforms,
plaid skirts and light blue blouses.
They performed bumps and grinds
in club doorways, promising wild sex.
Scantily clad waitresses in the hotel lobby
knelt next to my chair, gingerly holding
cups to my lips as I sipped my drinks.
Outside, the streets sported cocktail bus-pubs,
and older prostitutes called from darkened doorways,
that hid their age-warped bodies, selling themselves
for a few Thai bahts or Yankee bucks.
I spent most of my time in my hotel room
writing about how the day’s exercise went,
sending the story to my editors in Tokyo,
calling my wife a half ocean away,
and fending off a hallway hostess
who wanted to give me an hour of
"the best ever sexual deep massage."
In the hotel restaurant I saw
a family with two children
and asked my interpreter
where they would go for fun.
Besides a few religious shrines,
where would a tourist in
Sin City take a child?
Even the beautiful beaches
swarmed with sex.
He laughed and drove me to a zoo
where children perched on baby elephants
that were led around a small circular track.
He was taken aback when I asked
if I could scramble atop one and go for a ride.
I didn’t care about seeming silly and laughed
as I climbed up on Dumbo for what was
the highpoint of my trip to Thailand’s
version of Sodom and Gomorrah
NOTE: This is one of three poems of mine in the new Last Stanza Poetry Journal (Vol 6). Be sure to order from Amazon.