"Falling Rocks in Equal Doses" by Darryl Price

Falling Rocks in Equal Doses

Not sure I remember what's important, but I remember you.

That's the whole problem I think. You're a drain where

all my words wind up going down. All of them

get lost inside of you. Eventually. And I'm left with nothing

to say. Because all my words are gone like toothpaste.

The few I've got left only seem to repeat themselves

in pathetic smears. But they'll have to do. Not sure

I can remember anything important, but I say your name

in my sleep. It's all become a boring animal ritual.

I can admit to that. I remember you used to

wear this yellow teeshirt all the time like it defined

something impossible about you and your motion inside dark jeans.

It drove me mad with desire. And that made you

laugh. Which drove me over a cliff, into an ocean,

and left me clinging to slippery rocks for dear life.

So not sure I remember one important thing about anything

if you want to know the truth. But I know

the song that made you sit still and look at

things like they were puzzles you were putting together in

your head as a little seductive dance. How else am

I going to describe the sadness back to you now?

When you're not even listening. And my readers are expecting

me to swing this crazy thing around and show them

the secret room inside of themselves. But a broken heart

can only make cubist desk paintings out of its overly

hoarded toy stuffs and hope for the best. I can't

remember what's important to me any more. It was so

clear to me just yesterday. Oh. Open my eyes. Let

me see a way. Let me swim before I drown.

Let me swim before I wash away. I remember you

as important but I can't seem to remember why. The

words won't tell me. I'm not sure they think we

deserve to know the answer. Or they just might be

trying to protect us from the tilting sun. Oh. It's

too late for that. Oh, open my head. Let me

see before I go completely blind from all the salt in my

own eyes. Running down my face. For all of us

who are left have my words fight for air. For

all of us here let my words continue to look

for fair meaning. And kiss you goodbye. For all the

lonely floating pieces let my wrecked words shine through the

slumber of time and ruin. Night and day. Open the

curtains. I remember you. You were the question I guess

I needed to hear from this life. Thank you for

asking me. It was a beautiful way to say hello

and a hard way to say goodbye as the next

question on the horizon became more solitary in its insistence

on authenticity. Maybe what was so important doesn't matter. But

it remains with me. And I wouldn't want you to

think of it in any other way than real love.

Bonus poems:

Invisible Sky

by Darryl Price

This is the nothing you called for. I don't know why you should want it

delivered from me. My light went out. You might as well go on and receive

it from any passing glass. Once at least it would have seemed a small breeze

and a faint perfume and a quiet shaking of some early summerlike leaves. Now you

can call it a drowning ocean or an invisible sky if you want to but

it doesn't hold up anything recognizable. My open hands are empty. All around my world

the loveliness is sunk from my voice. My light is smashed and in pieces. The waiting is all over now. You should really walk away into some nearest bright tavern

and celebrate. Here. Have one on me. My light was mortally hurt from the beginning.

If you've found salvation on your path you are blessed among so few fish out

of water survivors. I'm bound for the elephant graveyards myself. I've heard they accept poets

there without question. My light was strange. You said so yourself somewhere inside the dark.

This is the nothing. I am the unremembered sky you once danced beneath. This is the nothing you called for. My heart broke around you, that's all. A fool for

love is always a lost soul. Everyone knows that. I learned it on my knees.

My Tiger by Darryl Price

Try to understand. There were dragons. Some were friendly, but

they were real dragons. You didn't want to end up

standing on the wrong side of a belch. Try to.

The young barefoot woman standing in the grass just outside

her garden gate was perfect for the sun, perfect for

any wind. Her hair was like a flag calling you

to enlist your heart into something more noble. Like a

grand slam to the side of the head. Bees barely

noticed. Birds typed the words you felt, above her head,

high in the clouds, with their sing-song beaks on full

tattletale throttle. Try to understand. We were boys. We had

never thought more deeply about what we were doing than

the invitation. Only the adventure itself ever took us farther

away. Down the stairs. Down the road. Suddenly we were

holding on for dear life. Trying to understand frustration. This

was something new. And hurt in ways no gun could

ever hope to protect us from. Bees elbowed their way

past our frozen stampede like we were made of daisy

chains.Try to understand. We were watching paintings come to

life.Try. We were lovers. Our hands and faces were

for us, only for each other. Bees buzzed around

everyone's heads. The barefoot woman moved into a beautiful house

and stayed behind its white picket windows forever. We were

new dreamers breathing together.You blew my mind. Is this

the place we made a secret plan to always appreciate

the bees? The heart breaks. It's a crime. No one

claims to have seen anything. The heart breaks. No one

understands. No one comes. Our hands. Our faces. Our bees.

I got on my tiger. What else was I going

to do? Now he is my only friend. Good company.

Talking to a Locked Gate by Darryl Price

"Fun is the one thing that money can't buy."--The Beatles

Poetry is an act

of love. Who do you think

you are? I'm not on your

wave, you riders of young

dreaming lovers, their hands

tied together in brave

hope for the future. An

act of love. Who are you?

I am not on your side,

you armies of trial and

terror, you proud puppets,

stompers of desire and

exploration, mistakes

and spontaneity.

Poetry is my love

for you. I am not on

your path, you critics of

the imperfect fumble,

artists trying to score

lightning into magic.

I resist. You gender

deniers of the great

mysterious spirit

in nature. Poetry

is an act of my love.

I return your beauty,

manipulators of

precise political

correctness, the strict lanes

of bricked-up feeling, spit

while proclaiming freedom

for only your own pain.

Poetry is at the

heart of all life, a wild

sensuality I

celebrate like a priest,

diverse and giving. Who

do you think you are? I'm

on the side of dancers,

starry-eyed rain makers.

Poetry is an act

of fun. Silly has no

religion. It has no

government. It is not

precious. It is our friend.

Do you think you are sane?

I'm on the side of shells

of the beach, light that shines.

eamon byrne, May 20, 2018

Such an interesting piece of writing. As those reasonably well read would know, there are a surprising number of ways prose can be formatted on a page: I read this as one of those ways.

The first piece, in particular, I found very effective. The 10-line stanzas, which are pretty much devoid of commas, have this virtue: they enable the text to be read very swiftly, and with clear comprehension.

Why is this so? It is because of the arbitrariness in the breakages, since the text continues mid-sentence. So it gives the reader a sense of relief, like a lap-swimmer gets when each time reaching the pool's end. The mind re-gears itself, knowing there will be only a further 10 lines before the next rest. Comprehension, attention, is enhanced by the text being drip-fed in equal doses.

This is an enormously interesting idea from a prose writer's perspective. The hybrid poem-prose form has great potential.

Darryl Price, May 21, 2018

Thanks eamon. I use this method because it forces me to be creative in the corners and to continue to row. I like it. And just as it "gives the reader a sense of relief" it also gives the writer a moment to catch his breath and remember the goal. But none of that would matter if the reader was not entertained and satisfied. Thanks for the comment. I really appreciate it. I changed the title in honor of your thoughtful words.