Beat-Up Trunk of Old Forgotten Paintings

by Darryl Price


The world can still be viewed as a drop

Of rain, but not all the tears can

Be revealed as such. Stories swirling inside are constantly

Shifting gears, searching for the lost highway, and 

Sometimes finding it. There is plenty of love

Going on, and a constant one, but angels

Get bored, put down their wings and grow

Horns just for the hell of it. People


Get caught in the middle of these petty

Wars over nothing but lies. In the meantime

All you can do is whatever you want,

Hoping something matters in the end. In our 

Time we made plenty of rhymes and growled

Right back at the thunder with our own

Version of beautiful noise. If it baffled many,

We still believed. This is more than a


Trunk full of old paintings, it is a

Map to the constant present tense where all

The best opportunities for living an authentic life

Are restored. Look at our hats! We wore 

Them to make each other happy. Look at

Our shoes! We wore them to get you

To smile. This whole thing is to celebrate

With you in spite of the nefarious gangs


Terrorizing the scene with their infantile tantrums of

Hate and money. We knew they would criticize

Us no matter what we did, or wrote,

Or painted. Sometimes a perfect world is more 

Of an imperfect try at something new, something

Unpopular, something impossible, something that feels good, something

More fun than functional. We fit. Then we

Didn't. Someone's got that missing piece right now.

Bonus stuff:

Look What They've Done To The End of My Song, Maharishi

by Darryl Price


The air is a nice surprise, once you get over

The cold. The first thing I wanted to do was

Turn my palms up to the sun like solar panels

And juice up. After that everything comes back to blossoms

And stems and more leaves. Then the thoughts return to

Their rightful places, resting among your hair like daisy chains,

Or follow the path of your walking feet like ecstatic

Gypsies, tranced-out, making  new music out of whatever is available.


This is the circle of my life, well outside the

Worn away seasons, and it has its own traveling forests

That provide the heart with its many windows. Every branch

Provides enough mystery to keep the skipping splashing water wheels

Turning in time. I'm as surprised as you, but not

Nearly as turned out. Poems won't allow any dishonest shadows

Cast. And I'm not interested in pursuing half-truths in order

To appear less sad. I've made my bell. I won't


Abandon its one true blessing just because you are tired

Of hearing something I never said. That was just a

Tide. That was a very still shell crunched beneath a

More vigorous lilac wind. The gulls might have heard an

Ache in the newborn grains of sand. I don't know,

But I can guess. Love is always beginning. That's what

Keeps it so much younger than you, not the other

Way around. Sorrow doesn't pass on the chance to speak


Of joy. My path is not your strange rabbits running

Under the apple tree like landlubber bees, but a mystifying moment

All its own. I give it to you, but not

To keep. I'd like it remain butterfly wild and hummingbird

Free, but those are just the colors I prefer. Once

More we come to the end of my song. I'm

Happy to make it in your name. If I disappear

In a deep, deep sea, I go my own dreamer.

Bonus material:

I Would Kiss You

I would kiss you if I thought

You needed kissing. I would


Touch your hair if I wanted

To feel the wind in my face.


I'd walk holding your hand if

I wanted to listen to it


Rain. I'd write you a song if

I couldn't think of anything


Else to say about the

Beauty that surrounds us. I'd


Embrace you if I sought an

Explanation for what's always in


My heart. Again I'd kiss you

If I thought it might comfort


You, leave you without any regrets,

But I would have to be sure.


I would kiss you because I'd

Want to remember what we


Came here for, to this poem's

House, to the combustible


Planet's inviting window, the time that

Goes on and on shaking the night like a freight train.



Take these pretty poetry things before

They are finished, you know you

Want to. Take all the pale

Fingers fluted with rings, the nails

Becoming visible at last like the

Sails of great ships, the bones


Beneath the waves holding the life-force

In its place, ripe with pulsating

Branches of many bells, and eat

Them, drink them, become them. Take

As many tall trees as you

Can and stuff them into the


Cotton bags of clouds like dried

Snakes. Take clouds and float them

Across a mirror. Take a river

Then and pour it on your

Hair like a silk scarf and

Laugh out loud. Throw your head


Back, open up your throat like

Never before and finally light up

The night like a good little

Star. Of course they won't listen.

But put your hands deep into

The fields of stars and pull out


All the moons you are meant

To know, and get to know 

Them. Remember this, a garland of

all the roses in all the

world isn't enough. The streaming morning

sun isn't enough. Only love's enough.