Poetry: David Allen

David Allen

DEAD

Dead,
reliving the life just ended,
peeling it all back,
finally seeing;
evaluate each deed
each thought,
each act, each longing;
requited, unrequited
loves; chances taken;
easy ways out;
victories, defeats;
encouraging beginnings,
discouraging endings.

Examine,
ruminate,
evaluate,
relive each moment,
rethink each thought
(and why not? you’ve got
the time).
What do you find?
What have you done with your life?
And what will you do
with your death?

FALLEN POETRY

The rocky shore
Of White Beach,
Okinawa,
On a perfect
Summer day.
A few clouds drift by In the baby blue sky.
It’s quiet,
The vacationers are gone.
I am all alone --
The atmosphere calls for poetry.
But, suddenly,
A slight wind
Nudges the pen
Just enough to fall
Off the picnic table
And onto the concrete
Slab of the shelter.
Twice.
The pen nib is ruined.
I curse,
Take a swig of my beer
And go back
To the novel I had abandoned
For a moment of poetry.
Hmmm,
It looks like rain.

DAMMIT DAVID

“Got a comment?”
 I asked the Public Affairs Officer.
“When’s your deadline?” he asked.
“Three hours,” I said.
“Dammit,” he replied.
“How do you spell that?” I joked.

Setu, January 2018