Jackie Allen Poems

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.
...

What is this~ this drumming beat
That crowds the space within ~
Whose rhythm dances my feet
Causes my head to spin
...

Now that the drizzle
And the fog
Have finally fled the scene,
They gaily frolic amongst
...

Ah, the gaiety that must have overtaken
Those ladies
...

It is cool and bright in the blue mountains.
The deep chill of night has moved, settled
down into the valley. The morning sun
spreads her arms over and around, painting
...

Didacticism, how wide the prevalence,
The essayists, handmaidens, imparting bias~
Propaganda tainted without truth, rhetoric
Painted with Stalin’s prose, nothing else.
...

He was standing out there, holding
his hat in his weathered hands,
No smile could I see.
The door behind which I stood,
...

In my mind’s eye
I’m standing
On a backlit stage,
And an aura of amazement
...

The black and white of it
is not easy
The truth... be it told
Is complicated
...

Scribbling a line or two, or a stanza
Make mundane, the horrific, or the beautiful.
Dictate the actuality from life, but from
The muse’s rehearsal, say what you will.
...