Jackie Allen

When I was but a wee child,
two or three or more,
I dreamed that I could fly like a butterfly.
Over the mountains,
...

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?
...

Medical centers are anxious places, moments
when panicking hearts await tests, procedures
and where, oft in silence, some closet themselves
as if to hide their fears, lest verbalized thoughts
...

Pausing
To reflect
Life scenes
Passing by
...

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.
...

Insight glitters with illumination.
Life inspires
Perception, imagination.
Curious students and a mesmerizing fraternity,
...

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.
...

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.
...

From a desecrated heart described, stained
the door locked shut, alas, family tree~
family name known, alas.... nothing else.
...

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.
...

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.
...

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
...

Between the old
And majestic mountains,
There lay within the woods
Many a concern.
...

From all of the  colors, which ones will I 
Use to paint my likeness, my self portrait~
The colors of kindness, of loyalty,
The colors of forgiveness, of great love,
...

Some possession wanted
No longer matter~
The long legs
Were never meant to be,
...

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.
...

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.
...

In its serenity, the morning is painted
In shades of misty gray, in shades
Of fading green, in shades of dripping wet,
Persevering. Waiting for relief.
...

Over the chilled landscape
the flakes flutter slowly and softly,
laying down a blanket of purest white~
ah, such striking beauty
...