Jackie Allen

Jackie Allen Poems

1. With Apologies To Salvadore Dali 6/24/2013
2. Who Knows? 6/24/2013
3. Wings Of A Butterfly 6/24/2013
4. Dark Rains 6/26/2013
5. Between Here And Now 6/26/2013
6. Indite 6/26/2013
7. On His Knees 6/26/2013
8. Upon Reflection 6/26/2013
9. Last Will And Testament 6/26/2013
10. Universal Mystery 6/26/2013
11. The Sweet Elixir Of Life 6/26/2013
12. The Sultry Hours Of Longing 6/26/2013
13. One Excuse, Or Another 6/27/2013
14. Holding The Future In My Hands 6/29/2013
15. Mining The Resources Of One's Mind 6/30/2013
16. Offending Pages 6/30/2013
17. Hath I Not Wings? 7/5/2013
18. A New Way, A New Day 7/6/2013
19. The Parting Scene 7/10/2013
20. The Door 7/25/2013
21. If Only.... 6/29/2013
22. Surrender To Love 7/27/2013
23. Make Mine Strong 7/27/2013
24. Remembering A Promise 8/6/2013
25. Self Portrait 8/16/2013
26. From A Tarnished Dream 8/16/2013
27. The Dance 6/26/2013
28. The Golden Girls In My Garden 8/16/2013
29. A Love Like None Other 8/16/2013
30. All Too Soon, We Will Greet The White Of Winter's Might 9/7/2013
31. As Thorns In Achilles Heel 10/2/2013
32. Taking The Risk 10/2/2013
33. All Too Soon We Will Greet The White Of Winter's Might 10/2/2013
34. Ever Yet The Fool 6/1/2014
35. Full Of It 6/30/2014
36. The Preface 6/30/2014
37. Of Sour Grapes And Wine 7/1/2014
38. Serendipity 9/6/2015
39. Seeking A Place Of Peace 9/6/2015
40. And, So It Is... 9/6/2015

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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, ...

Read the full of I Am What I Am

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.

O, morning sun, be thou his true witness...
The hour of reckoning is knocking at
his door...He asks if life‘s rhyme is but a ruse,  
and he but a pale shadow?

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