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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,
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.
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;
Of Sour Grapes and Wine
On the one hand..... Clusters of sour grapes, a jet trail overhead, His, a cloud of suspicion, a cocktail of the unknown. A skeleton of scarecrow stood as sentry, and time
Inside. Outside. There’s work needing to be done. It matters not whether the cost is little or a lot, Whether it’s sunny or stormy, cold or hot.
encircling the passage strings of perils rattle
A Love Like None Other
Ah, the gaiety that must have overtaken Those ladies
A scene for romance, a bottle of wine, Ripe olives, some pasta, any kind of dance Takes me back to long ago days of my youth, When as a young girl, I dreamed of romance,
Between the old And majestic mountains, There lay within the woods Many a concern.
In my mind’s eye I’m standing On a backlit stage, And an aura of amazement
Walking through the Woods on a Snowy Mor...
Nothing is stirring, all is peaceful and quiet, The earth is blanketed in snowy white, Alas, where do the cardinals reside, sleep, They robed in red, royally indiscreet?
So Old The Story
heavy with clouds the sky... beneath winged feet the scented air.. a honey-suckled breeze...
there is a place of intense reflection like the clear crystal waters where images
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)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(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, ...