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All Things


by Darryl Price


Thank you for all things beautiful.
And to you: you shouldn't have to
sell your soul for a crust of bread.

You shouldn't have to sell your soul
for a little cash. You shouldn't
have to sell your soul for a safe
place to lay down your body. Thanks
for life's restless feelings, mistakes. 

You: you shouldn't have to sell your
soul to speak passionately your
sounds. To laugh or cry. Thank you for

physical contact. Thank you for
the tides. And to you: you shouldn't
have to sell your soul to be free
to like whom you love. The choice sets
you free. And to you: you shouldn't

have to sell your soul to make your
point. All things. Beautiful as bells. 
You: you shouldn't have to sell your

soul to rise new into morning.
Thank you for all things beautiful.
All things. Small things. The obvious
things. Things invisible. Thank you
for stars and rain and fossil trees. 

You: you shouldn't have to sell your
soul for a little dialogue
with another human being.

Thank you. All things full of beauty.
And to you: let's get you some more
poetry to go with that. Don't
have to sell your soul to be glad
to misbehave. All beautiful.



Bonus poems:



An Arrow from Another World by Darryl Price

You think our paths crossed all because life is
a random trek across time and space. We
should be so lucky. Do you know someone
who hasn't made a complete fool out of

himself? I don't know what we are doing
here. All the facts don't add up to much, but
I've always been interested in the
funny way your teeth seem to rotate in

your mouth. It makes me smile and feel glad to
be alive. I'm not looking for explanations.
There's no reason I can think of
that's not going to seem like illusions.

But if you were in my shoes, and sometimes 
you are, you wouldn't think it was so bad
to be enamored with the way you walk
across a street. But I've never seen anything

more disturbing. It charms the shit 
out of me. I also don't care. It is
what it is. I accept it. As an arrow
suddenly and always through me. As

a light on the wall that is quickly disappearing 
with my life. I have no choice
but to pay attention to my own demise 
at your adorable hands. You think

these words make no sense. They don't. I wouldn't
pretend otherwise. But they are genuine.
That's all I can give you in this world. 
You are heading away from me at speeds
 
I can only imagine and yet here 
you are in my room, in my head, in my 
words. Again, I can only accept it. 
And I do if it means you exist, at 

least for now. The rest is up to our brains
I guess to figure out how to make it 
more than a waste of time. I take it either
way because I absolutely would rather

know you from afar than not at all. 
That's as true as I can make it. The sun
will shine. To me, you are as essential
to all life as we know it. Thanks for that.



Brain Cleaning & Repair

by Darryl Price


You've been given some really cruel thoughts that are not your own.

You've been given some really stupid sets of rules which are impossible

to follow. You can learn to manage for yourself. Remember who you

were before they told you who you were. You've been trained

since birth to get upset by all manner of things which are

not true, at least no truer than the others. These people, they

are going to ask you for your life, it doesn't matter what

for, but let's say to protect certain behind the curtains money managers

from discovery, there is always a back room somewhere. You've been given

a box in a hotel. You've been given a watch. A diamond 

ring. What you have not been given is the embrace you deserve, 

that belongs to you, because it has been stolen by human beings


who make vampires look like good little shepherds. Remember who you were

when you liked yourself. That person's depending on you here to know

the difference between an implanted feeling and one's own real deepest feeling.

Go deeper. Deeper. Deeper. Find yourself. Right now you're a candle in

a row of candles, waiting to be used, thrown away and replaced, 

all to illuminate the dinners of a very few hungry hungry hippos.

Unless you wake up from this medicated stupor and start to think

outside of TV-land. Unless you can remember how to dream something of

your own choosing. Unless you are willing to find out for yourself

what you believe in, who you are, and what makes you tick. 

You've been given a plastic world to play in, but there's a

very real world where you come from and where you'll always belong


because it is home. Call it Rock. Call it love. Call it 

nature. Call it soul. Anything you want, but use your own word

for it. Experience that force. Pronounce it with every breath. Let it

show you its meaning. Listen. Listen for the undeniable presence that flows

everywhere and nowhere, and then tell me who these people are who

feel like they own you. They say poetry is dead. It is 

not dead, it is a dragon, it cannot die. They say war 

is the only savior you'll ever need. What do you say? You've

been given a choice by the very nature of your being able

to think. The enemy is large. The enemy is conniving. The enemy 

is manipulative. Just look at the greed in those eyes. The bite

in those smiles. The violence in those fingers. But all is not 


lost because there is you. A someone like no other. A free 

thinker. This is your invitation to the consciousness. This is your chance

to take off the helmet of hate and fear. They've been feeding 

you beautiful lies laced with poisonous attitudes, but that's all over now,

if you want it. You have to want it. You have to 

be it. No one else can do it for you. It can 

get lonely. It's not easy. But it feels good to be alive,

to be out of their device, to volunteer for life on your 

own terms. Bright and fair. Bright and fair. Oh, and, one more 

thing, it never ends, this fight to keep off the caps of 

despair. They'll march right up to you and clamp one on you

faster than you can run. Just use your good sense: "No, thanks."




Bonus poems:




Happy

by Darryl Price


 

Are we happy yet? Life without sorrow    is not life. Try again. Are we    happy yet? Killing yourself for pleasure after    pleasure turns out to be the opposite

    thing altogether, but you already knew that.    Try some more. Are we happy yet?    Love is not all you need, unless    you turn everything and that includes

 everyone    everywhere into love. Are you willing? Why    should I be the only one, when    I'm not the only one? Are we    happy yet? My choice is true hope

    I hope for everyone here, but you'll    say it's another con game made out    of pictures of hands because you can't    please them all. If it did I    wouldn't be


 doing it right. They want    a back flipping poet who is always    on their silly sides. I don't want    to be anyone's golden vampire. Check it    out. Are we happy

 yet? We've given    the children's keys to the kingdom to    the cloud people to hold until we    get back from the Crusades with our    bloody survivor stories to

 tell. Are we    happy yet? I smile into the mirror    of your eyes, but it doesn't work    out at all that way for me.    Are we happy yet? It's all good.    Try turning it off

 and on again.    I mean you've given everything you've wanted    to hide away to these unfeeling soul    sucking machines and now you want their    eternal thanks


 tattooed forever on your bank    statements like Christmas cards? No thanks. Are    we happy yet? Oh the magnificent bombs    didn't change a thing. Oh the carnival

    ride is over. Oh there's a big    shark in the river. Oh I think    we just may have misread the tea    leaf vibes after all. Oh there's a    feeling we seem to be missing

 in    the backs of our minds. Oh I    don't feel so good. But you said.    Are we happy yet? Oh you don't    love me anymore. I'll put my pants    back on. Oh she

 was the most    beautiful woman I ever played hooky with.    Oh you're kidnapping my laugh. Oh catch    me if you can. Are. We. Happy.    Yet? Oh give


 me a home where    the monkeys all roam and the sky    is a bowl of freshly cut fruit.    Put on a suit. Suit yourself. Zip    it. Are we there yet? Oh life    without

 sorrow is just not the brown    shoe lithium lick we need to extend    our battery life. It never was. It    can never be. Oh say can you    see me through all those

 sticking together    branches? Oh surely we're getting very near    the end, but possibly not. Oh please   there's not much more time to figure   it all out. Are we

 happy? Oh.   Life without sorrow will not help you   develop your telepathic compassion. Sometimes a new   approach is needed more than specific answers.  




The First Thing

by Darryl Price


The first thing I realized I was hearing 

when I woke up from the land of nowhere was

the brittle sounds of little frozen rods of

rain crashing into the sliding glass porch doors

relentlessly and cracking into tiny

shards of split piles in the bare bulb light of dawn.

I don't know why this scene of tiny frozen

lakes all cracking in unison entered my

 

glowing brain like that but it made it perfectly clear and 

beautiful sense to me. I was back and

I had nothing else to focus on but this

song of melting wind chimes blowing all around me. I felt thankful.

Right now I've been watching it snow for hours and

I get that same feeling. Then I turned on the key to myself.

I'd been sleeping on the couch, but I knew

 

what was being said. You're not done yet. You've still

got the gift of listening to it rain. That snowy beat's

ancient music's being carried on inside of you. It carries the sense of the real 

you.  You must use this sound out loud. Pay it forward. Keep

snow alive. Find a way. Speak like snow, as snow, for snow.. And so, on behalf

of the rain and myself  may I request

the honor of your presence at this poem.

 

 

Darryl Price                 Friday, January 25, 2013



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