my words

Month: July, 2014

Prayer of Remembering


I am the star, and the night which gives it meaning.
I am the the path, and the journey that is its purpose.
I am the ocean, the waves and the depths.
I am the sky, I stretch across the world.
I am God, expressed in flesh.
I am Man, filled with divine fire.
I Am.


HAIKU #7: The Alchemist’s Haiku


is the very soul
of The Art.



When asked what kind of flower they’d like to be, most people will answer with something like “a beautiful rose” or “a tender orchid.” While these are certainly gorgeous and filled with symbolism, they are not hardy enough for me.

Me, I’d choose the dandelion: first there’s a brilliant shock of vibrant yellow, then the bloom goes within to emerge as a ball of paratrooping seeds that blow on the first breeze to take them. Once they have completed their journey – like my words, my ideas and my love – they take root, beginning all over again, and you will never, ever be able to kill them all…


It is one of the oldest ideas: that “all the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players…”
Certainly, as children, we are not the authors of our lives – it’s our parents’ and society’s job to, at the very least, guide our little destinies. We go from toddlers to young men and women, even into adulthood, allowing things outside ourselves to determine the ‘plot’ of our lives. Even though we may rail against ‘unkind fate’ or ‘the way things are,’ once we’ve reached a certain maturity, we know we are merely avoiding the responsibility of taking the pen up ourselves.
To get through the days, we distract ourselves with the dramas of other people’s lives: family, neighbors, politicians, actors and performers… Some of these plays seem immediate, even real, some we know to be scripted for our benefit. Sometimes we even join the pantomime, take our moment of fame, then rejoin the audience as it watches something like life go on in front of them.
Before long, we forget that it’s all theater. We no longer see the stage, the proscenium, and we cease to notice the curtain calls. More than a few do not lose this awareness; instead they try to erase it with other distractions – alcohol, drugs, sex, even madness.
There are those, however, that become aware of the scripted lines, the rehearsed gestures, and the art of the costumers and set designer. Though they had been born into the illusion, one day the sheer artifice of it all reawakens them to the banality of the scripted lines.
These, once placid members of the great audience, feel suddenly foreign and out-of-place. Like critics sent to review the performance, they become unable to fully immerse themselves into the experience. They then come to realize their own part in the grand illusion, and one day understand that there will be no deus ex machina – no plot twist that saves them unless they take up the playwright’s pen themselves.
At that moment, they are no longer players on the world’s stage. They are seized with a passion, a mania, to claim their birthright as masters of the play, to tear the pen from any hand that would hold it and to burn the old script that seemingly dictated their existence.
And then, to write…

Shawn D. Allen
July 11, 2014

More: a meditation

Infinite and eternal:
Complete in our separation,
What do we become together?

(c) 07-4-2014
Shawn D. Allen


Once the floodgates had been opened
there was no return;
no holding back the oceans
of feelings denied
thoughts unspoken…
One day they went into her room
and Heloise was gone.
Only a great pile of words and poems remained…

(c) 07-4-2014
Shawn D. Allen

Independence Night

Watching fireworks ignite the darkness,
Embers fall and roost like blazing pigeons
In the eaves of tinderbox houses.
See the flames reflected on the sweating pavement
As everything that is not true and immortal
Burns into ashes and is borne away
By the windstorm and flood.
Lay with me here, and let’s be lovers
As we watch the world end tonight.

(c) 07-4-2014
Shawn D. Allen