Allen Singer: POETRY/SONGS

She was put out on the street with her longings and
belongings, alongside baggage full of despair,
housecoat, hair up and yearning for coffee,
Memories of people she loved were there,
A cat box beside her, waiting patiently for Fluffy,
She’d sit on her beach chair, hand writing her life song,
Shadowed by her thoughts,
Words dancing across her pages,
She didn’t dare look up, she’s already moved on,
Old coffee cups, candy wrappers, a sock or shoe nearby,
A shopping cart of memories, snuffed with a rainbow of old clothes,
Covered with newspapers, some dog eared and faded,
Dust at her feet like melted street snow,
Cocooned in sweaters,
Too many to count,
Sitting on her beach,
Under her shades,
In the morning sun,
She lives on!

Allen Singer (c) 2011

Riding out one morning on an old trail head
Fresh dust in my teeth, smoky breath around my head
I saw rock angels falling, dancing a slow motion waltz,
On old trails in old canyons, sage brush crowded draws
Thinking time’s like a dried river, empty and lonesome
And canyon walls told many tales of tribes, long gone
Ghostly story tellers, kept alive by the morning’s sun
Chilled and kept peaceful under a new evening moon
While sly coyote thrown quartz stars lighted my way
Bedding down for the night, bed rolled on the ground,
Eating some pemmican pushed along by camp fire coffee
I remembered I’d ridden this dream trail so many times
Looking for something that was looking out for me
Remnants of stories, reminders of yesterday, old friends I rode with
Down old Indian trails taken to find my way
Ahead of our troubles like rusty memories now slowly etched in time
We go riding, recalling, searching memories on life’s old trail line
We go riding, recalling, searching memories on life’s old trail line

(c) ALLEN SINGER 2008

Steel ribbon rails, splintered wooden cross ties,
Old rolling stock side tracked behind coal dust mounds.
Many years I’ve traveled, sometimes just rambling,
Trying to climb Big Rock Candy Mountain,
Many rough days, sitting in darkness, really alone,
Romantic tales and hobos’ wild stories, all told together,
Taking my last train ride, I’m going westward.

One day, any day, whistle woke me in the dark, calling me to take my long ride home.
Deeper into the tunnel, ghosts touched my heart, tears rolled down my face, why must I roam?
A voice sang an echoing tune in that magic moment,
“You’ll never know the answer unless you ride on.”
Romantic tales and hobos’ wild stories, all told together,
Taking my last train ride, I’m going westward.

Climbing a switchback over life’s many mountains,
Old towns, sage brush covered memories,
Closed tunnels on a cross tied railway,
Old stations, old ticket takers, boxcars, hotels,
Signs I painted for a meal to eat.
Empty rail yards, jungle camps, highways,
I’m old rolling stock on my last roam.
Romantic tales and hobos’ wild stories, all told together,
Taking my last train ride, I’m going westward.

© ALLEN SINGER 2008

An old lumberjack sat, hemlock in cup,
Hidden by sassafras tea,
Sitting stumped
In new growth forest,
Many saplings bent
Under expectations,
Green thumb gone,
Redwoods weeping,
Crows flying,
Willows bent,
Songbirds sang in minor keys,
Ancestors passed away, old fossils themselves,
Remembering flocks of T-Rex, mastodons, walking fish, medicine plants, Rain falling, running streams, dried now,
Old secrets,
Not yet, not known, not heard, not really, not important, not yet.
Lumberjack, axeman, tree taker,
Bleeding the bark in a hemorrhaging forest,
Waiting, dying, gone,
Lumberjacks, old men,
No new trees.

Allen Singer (c) 2006

Where are all the poets
who jumped stop signs,
lit those fires,
broke closed windows,
ran through open snake pits,
ate crow,
screwed around, their third eye ajar,
practicing detours, swimming among leeches,
dried in smoke houses,
feeding on carcasses of past poets,
ones your mother always warned you about,
Smiled at death, pen out of ink,
Writing on empty,
Full of intellectual gas,
Unscrewed fact, crap, ego, thoughtlessness, romance, glee, evil, run down love, old blues, immature awakenings,
others’ thoughts, envy, no regret!
What is?
What for?
Oy vey, Jebu blues, atheists, Sabbath electric candles, hair shirt itches,
Grandma’s homemade bread,
Howling chindi, keepsakes, dry powder kegs, marked spots of invisible inked thoughts withdrawn, understated,
Yet there,
When will clarity be?
Visible the unvisited,
Opening the closed door,
Last breath, untaken,
Nuff said already!

Allen Singer © 2006