Click here to add this poet to your My Favorite Poets.
Jackie Allen Poems
I Am What I Am
When I was but a wee child, two or three or more, I dreamed that I could fly like a butterfly. Over the mountains,
Scent Of Grief
I caught but a glimpse of her pale moonlike face. She was wearing a yellow sweater with white lace. Standing on tiptoes, peering over the edge, I wondered, how cold was it, six feet below?
A Moment For All Time
Scenes of design, origin~ cherry, gingko, or maple trees .....a Japanese screen transplanted in kind. Some five koi splashed blue;
Frozen in time, the tides, the ocean’s roar. Yet, intent upon her work, she is painting a scene from that day, framed by memory. In it, she’s in shock, unable to help.
Late Night Musings
Insight glitters with illumination. Life inspires Perception, imagination. Curious students and a mesmerizing fraternity,
Time of Reckoning
Yesterday, he fell into a vat of self pity, and with intent, stirred up the past... drank of its bitter wine... a pathetic, defeated man.
The Cathedral in the Woods
Like a sudden chill that runs down The ridge of my back, the morning Has come again to offer anew, the taste That satisfies my poetic thirst.
From a desecrated heart described, stained the door locked shut, alas, family tree~ family name known, alas.... nothing else.
The Big C
You were not invited, yet you surreptitiously walked in during the morning hours, the shower in the background and Madonna dancing and singing, while I cupped my hands and....screamed! You were there, and for months you had accompanied me, wearing such clever disguises that no one recognized you, though I had had a suspicion. You were there, hiding, minute by minute, growing in confidence for the moment you would strike the final blow.
Sitting on the Fence
Like some decision sitting on a fence, the day is cold, chilly, changing colors. Alternately, snapping to attention, it poses at the photographer’s bidding.
Over the chilled landscape the flakes flutter slowly and softly, laying down a blanket of purest white~ ah, such striking beauty
So Old The Story
heavy with clouds the sky... beneath winged feet the scented air.. a honey-suckled breeze...
The streets are smeared, slick and wet, Rivulets of screaming madness crash Against the peace. The night is too harsh. One could end up in a discarded heap.
The Colors I Wear
I wonder, does time truly heal the wounds of loss, of emptiness? Can it heal pain, Sorrow, grief, the wailing of self-blaming? The truth is a stain. It colors the bruises I wear.
Comments about Jackie Allen
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
I Am What I Am
When I was but a wee child,
two or three or more,
I dreamed that I could fly like a butterfly.
Over the mountains,
on wings of adventure
I sought out branches of laurel
and like a fairy,
I crowned my head with a ring of joy.
High above, when the clouds
up in the sky began to darken, began to cry,
I wished, at ten or so, that I was as small
as a mouse, so that I could scamper
into the rhubarb patch
and hide beneath their umbrella-like leaves,
munching on their juicy red stems,
making mouse-like noises.
Early in my teens, ...