my words

your hand


I want to feel your hand in mine,

Warm, as it once was,

Not this cold drawing away.

On days like these,

Damp, Autumn days,

I miss you most of all.

#tsu #poetry #shawnallen


from a Work In Progress


I exist.
I am complete
yet ever evolving,
I am perfection
still and always perfecting.
I am only “now”
tho’ experienced.
I am awake
yet always dreaming.
I am open
and forever blooming.
I am solid
still, Life may enter.
I am broken
in brokenness, whole.
I know time
but am eternal.
I am human
with power divine.
I am all this
and I am All,
I exist.


th (26)

How can we not be dancing?
The big Earth is turning,
But our feet only move in straight lines.
If you’re walking on this Earth
You’re treading on sacred ground,
So how can we not be dancing?

How can we not be singing?
The sun just keeps rising,
But our whole lives lived in just one note.
If you aren’t speaking truth
You’re just making noise.
How can we not be singing?

How can we not be living?
The days keep slipping by
But the routine never seems to change.
We’ve learned so many things
And forgotten who we are.
How can we not be living?



Do the blind weep for colors they cannot know?
Do the deaf long to hear the symphonies denied them?
Do the mute go silently insane with all the things they cannot express
And the screams of passion and rage that go unheard?
Do the scarred long to feel again;
To reach beyond the tough flesh and touch another?
When the night is dark and quiet
And I see my own gray reflection
These are things I wonder…

Ghost Stairs


On the floor by the foot of the bed he keeps the drawer that used to hold his socks and underwear, upside-down, with a box of once read paperbacks on top, pushed against the mattress. The top of the box was indented, as if something had sat there and pushed it in, and the whole mess looked quite out-of-place.

He kept them there so his little, aging dog could use them as steps to get up onto the bed whenever she wanted to.

Even though she’d been gone almost a year, he couldn’t bring himself to move them back where they belonged, in case her ghost came to visit, and still needed them to get into the bed.


The Cricket

The Cricket

Outside the door
A lonely cricket sings
Heralding the going-within season.
This stray Summer’s day
Belies the coming chill;
A last solar flare
Before snow marches down
The mountain
And the mystery of Winter’s shroud falls.
One final lucid dream
Of life, then,
It will be silence.
Yet, today, a cricket sings.


the cricket

child in corner copy

The child hides far back
in the darkness
making itself small
forcing the breaths
very slowly
very quiet.
The pills lay scattered
lying on the ground
within reach.
It wants to take them
but the child knows
it would then be as weak
as vulnerable
as dead
as the man
it hides within…

Blood drips from clenched fists
polluting the dark earth.
The door before me is closed.
No key or knob of entry shows
on the blank face.
Only the blood from my broken hands
mars the surface.
Tears stream from my eyes
shame and rage
given form.
I taste salt on my lips:
a thing that can preserve,
or make barren.
I raise my fists again
and begin to slam them
on the wooden barrier.
Knowing it is futile,
blood spraying,
I beat the door,
feeling the blows
on my body.,,



Of these I am made:
the salt of a tear
a smile’s incandescence
phosphor, burning bright
the caress of moonbeams
the lust of fireflies
a monk’s desires
the edges where light and shadows meet
the sound of a wish
wind in a graveyard
the scent of a nursery
wanton mutterings
whispered screams
captured star-stuff
the echo of oceans
the dance of the mountain
the hue of delphinium
the fragrance of porrtulacas
the feel of fresh yarn
and secrets,
Of these I am fashioned.


Black beaks,

Oily black wings and sharp talons,

Wet black eyes crying,

The ravens tear

Their way through from the inside,

Escaping my swollen gut

And stealing tatters of my soul

To line their nests.

In their wake,

Common crows rush in to roost.