Learning to love poetry

I was one of the students who struggled through the poetry section of high school English classes. Finding the hidden meaning in a line-up of words that seemed to have no more connection to each other than oil and water, just wasn’t clicking for me. Not until I came across the poetry of a young writer, Allison Malecha.

Yes, Allison is my daughter, and yes by the laws of unconditional parenthood I am obligated to read her writings AND to LOVE them – all! The amazing part is I do, love them all – but not because she is my daughter, but because the writings resonate with me. Now I get how one is supposed to feel after reading poetry – moved by the element of combining simple every day words into a compilation of moods, emotions, adventures, scenery.

Allison is first on my list of ‘Favorite Writers’ to showcase another genre’ of writing and that is different from my style of writing. But yet shows another way of transporting a reader through words. Allison takes you on journey after journey to travel through time, through fairy tale lands and through some of the most beautiful scenic settings.

A recent graduate of Columbia University with a BA in Comparative Literature, Allison now works at a publishing house in NYC. She has had multiple poems published in her young career, with her first poem published at the age of 9. I have attached several of her poems and links to other poems. I hope you will enjoy them as I have.


More published poems

A link to two published poems at YARN (Young Adult Review Network):



Clutching the corner of a forlorn meatball,

The rat waltzes through the slit of a door

Into the shelter of a tin roof and

Cracked windows painted with dirt,

It leaves a bloodlike stain, the epitome of

A gunshot wound, but it’s food.

Her eyes barely hesitate at the rodent’s

Intrusion, not the first, not

The last.  She understands the hunt

For a way to survive.  L-I-L-Y

Spelled out in block black letters,

The corner of the nametag is

Peeling away,

She pins it on anyway.

Snakeskin stilettos pierce the

Marble floor of Maria’s home – all

7,000 square feet.  Floors never

Touched by the clack of a rat’s nails.

She glances at the clock, unapproving

As the maid flies in, two minutes, thirty seconds

Late.  She does not say a word to the

Lady, cannot for the life of her remember

The name.  Milly? perhaps

Trusting what’s-her-name to find the

Kids, Maria glides out through the slit

Of the door.  She is late herself, but

Only fashionably so.  The restaurant will

Wait, everyone waits for her, on

Her.  Smiling, a cold smile, a million dollar

Ice queen smile at her economic equals


Around the room.  Caviar adorns their

Plates, diamonds adorn their rings.

She picks at her meal, her appetite gone

Long ago.  After all she did not marry

The man across the table for his looks,

But the obesity

Of his wallet.  Holding the plate away from

The bleach white of his uniform, a busboy

Scrapes the ice queens meal into the garbage

Out back.  And later, a rat, with a circle

Of red dying his chest,

Crawls into heaven – another mans reek.

Circle was published in the Eastern Kentucky University Literary Journal

Life as the City

Life as the City

The day wraps around itself – graying petals raise the walls of a secret garden

around the sun, baring their water-plump underbellies to the world. 

The sky tips back in tremors of laughter, water draining

from its eaves, spreading the city over a lightless sky and dousing it in shades of


A puddle of silver satin sheets squirms beneath me.  Knees rolled

into my chest, arms draped around them, my eyes averted past the tear-

stained windows.  A tube of beer-battered light tunnels from the streetlamp,

the edges siphoned away, leaving a haze where warmth meets damp night. 

The sheets follow my feet to the floor — they don’t make it

past the bedroom.  A bellow of thunder greets my hand at the front door. 

Night and rain replace my skin in folds.  I am the city. 

I taste the perspiration fill my lungs, feel thousands of lights embed themselves

in my body, hear rippling voices tuck the kids away from the storm. 

The cool rain drips through thick fingers

of tar into my veins, and my heart beats erratically, in sync with a million others.

Tangerine wicker claws at the back of my legs, and I’m drawn back

away from the world.  The wicker chair is new, not broken in yet – like this 

Minneapolis life.  It needs to be tested, sculpted, softened.  A private smile

creeps out into the city; and I let the people do the breathing for me.



Allison Malecha Poems – Mind’s Eye


Time is inevitable, yet unpredictable.

It is always going, yet often comes to a stand still.

It gets in your way, yet helps you.

And once you pass a point

All of time seems the same, yet very changeable.

Time is unexplainable, yet perfectly plain.