Jackie Allen

Jackie Allen Poems

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
...

Scenes of design, origin~
cherry, gingko, or maple trees
.....a Japanese screen transplanted in kind.
Some five koi splashed blue;
...

Pausing
To reflect
Life scenes
Passing by
...

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,
...

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.
...

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.
...

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.
...

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,
...

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.
...

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.
...

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.
...

When mornings are born each day and anew...
And skies are painted a crystal-clear robin's
Egg blue, the sun dances and kisses with hot
Lip's breeze, the shoulders of the loving-tree.
...

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

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.
...

The Best Poem Of Jackie Allen

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,
when I’d grown into a young girl
I wanted to pass
for twenty-two, or twenty-three.
Like bubbles in champagne,
I dreamed of tickling my fancy, buying new clothes,
and I started acting like I knew
far more than I did.

When I grew up,
had children of my own, I dreaded birthdays,
wished that I was younger,
though, in truth, I didn’t want
to go through it all again. Still I had
no doubts about my husband nor my children,
just that none of the mirrors
had any saving grace.

Having reached a certain age,
wiser and more sure of myself,
no longer do I wish for, covet, or dream
about things that once held positions of regret.
The person that I am today
is comprised of all the things I’ve done and
seen and been. Is there anyone who can say
they have such a friend?

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