by Darryl Price


It's a solid gray picture on my glass sliding

door today, but I still admire everything about it.

The Sunday branches barely being touched by the cautiously

approaching light winds, just enough to give a sweet

soft motion to the overcast waking skies, if you

stare at it long enough. And the hint of

(bubbling just under the surface) tiny peeking buds up


and down the long slender hairless arms. I'd like

to see that suddenly perfect color up close and

personal. The bees, what's left of them, are glad

to comply I'll bet. And the serious houses waiting

to crack a Spring smile on top of each

other, following every street sign to its current concrete

conclusion, like pieces played down on some crazy board


game. Yesterday I heard my first invisible bird of

the year and it was magnificent, ordinary and more

beautiful than Beethoven in its loud deafness. A living

wind chime. A bell with a heartbeat. A tinkling

foghorn. It lifted me out of myself. I floated

like a leaf. I unfurled like a flag. In-

haled like a hippie. Stretched like a cat. Stood


like a lighthouse. Sat like a sea shore, heart

bobbing like a seahorse (attached by tail to a

strong green strand of Atlantic seaweed), splashing passing whales

with open waves from both my hands. All because

one lone bird being was feeling the need to

celebrate the moment we shared. The inside barrier was

demolished. Then the bird left, and I wrote you.  

Bonus poems:



When the sun explodes, can we

Still go to the dance? When the

Sun explodes, do we still get

To vote? Do we have to wear


Uncomfortable clothing

In case anyone sees us

Who might think they are better

Than us because of money?


When the sun explodes, I think

I'm going to go swimming

In the nude and I hope you'll

Come with me. When the dear old


Sun goes on a sneezing rampage

I'll see if there are any

Seats left near the exit

Signs. When the sun explodes, perhaps


You would be kind enough

To let me hold your hand? When

The stars are flung against the

Far walls like burning paint, will


You try to remember my

Name for you when we have snuggled

Together for warmth? When

The sun explodes, I fully


Expect you to come walking

Through that door. When the sun bursts,

All my poems will become

A monument to our love.   

Your Own Meaning for Birds

There are unseen pictures

going on inside the

always circulating

screen's flat surface. When you

focus on any one

thing you lose the rarest

possibilities that

exist just beyond that


single image. Think as

above so below. When

you see only clouds, you

miss an awful lot of  

the play between sun and

the earth. And it is this

moving exchange that will

create so much of the


new day's nuance. Birds are

drawing wonderful bird

lines, but they quickly fall,

disappear beneath the

surface of the air. Still

they may communicate

something new to you, and

something timeless. You may


recall them later in

your dreams and understand

them as neurologic

patterns in your own brain,

or use them to create

your own meaning for flight.

It's open if you don't

choose to shut down the night's


magic ability

to see into the dark.  

Your participation's

not always required, but

it only makes sense you'd

want to be part of your

own consciousness as

it travels dimensions. dp

Bonus Poems:

Parking Lot

Things that matter are all around us. If it makes you want to sing

I'd grab that one. There's always another surprising moment coming up, you might find

yourself looking at yourself through the mirror of a paranoid landscape, but everything is

changing. You can't trust the musical beauty you have found nor the innocent beauty


you are given in affection, but you can have an actual smile on your

grumpy face if it fits the going around mood you're in. That may not

be the power you dreamed of either, but dream some more. Things that matter

aren't false. They are passed to you and you are expected to pass them


on to others. If it makes you want to dance with another living creature

in the cold pissing rain, if it makes you want to laugh without reservation,

I'd share that feeling in as many ways as there are petals in a

baked golden field loved by a multitude of honey bees. But that's all up


to you. The universe's not holding a cosmic squirt gun to your head waiting

for you to answer some ancient stupid riddle. It's only waiting for your next

adventure to begin. Things that matter aren't that difficult to solve. If it makes

you play air guitar you're on the right track again. All morning, represent this


arrangement between you and the rest of you. Things that matter are not to

be found in your fetal useless education. They cripple you with TV as original

sin and same old nightmare. Things that matter are more human than they'd like

you to know. But you already knew that. Now purse your lips and blow


the poem to Kingdom Come. That's the only way to be completely free of

prejudice. They would love to sell you on the idea of corruption as salvation.

You can join their army any time you'd like. But things that matter are

watching you from their windows, waiting for your answer to arrive on time.   

Pet Joke/ a Valentine by Darryl Price


You get off easy. Time has slowly soaked

up your promising footprints. The crying

gate has rusted shut. No familiar

skies anymore. They all look brand new. I've

got the pointy company of distant

smoking stars alright, but they are a cold

to the touch comfort now. You rise easy.

You have your carefully twisted chosen

responsibilities looped around your

light of the moon neck like an expensive

unusual necklace. You have earned your

travel miles in all the right outfits. Your


favorite shoes might tell a different

story, but they are a bit confused. You

still get easy. I wasn't so lucky.

I fell into you, fell like into an  

open shadow. I still have the shape of

you in my currently spinning head--where

everything gets squeezed into that cornflake

mold before it comes out as another

urgent feeling. I can't help it. You get

off easy. Anytime you need to make

an emergency excuse all you do--

ask the ride-along wind for direction.


You get off easy, but you'll laugh and say

hey no one gets it handed to them for

free, all the while remembering how much

lint money you gave to the guy singing

his heart out on the dirty cracked sidewalk

in front of you. You get off easy. You

were constantly ignoring changing, too.

We had our own master plan for fun. Now

it's only my necessary pet joke

kept in a fraying medicine pouch. I

keep thinking the punch line should be so much

more funny than it is. You get off so


easy again. We are divided at

long last. You were a cheating guest. Something

is nothing. Nothing is burning trash in

the ragged sun. Nothing is starving in

the root cellar of all hope. Nothing is

singing a song about nothing. Nothing

is going nowhere in a thunderstorm.

You get off easy. I'm almost done here.

I'm an abused private photograph. I've

been left in the contemptible drawer

fading with a million more. Welcome to

that special place of pressed flowers and dirt.