First the Newborn Birds on High and Then the Awful Climbing Beasts

by Darryl Price

 "Stop watching the news!

Because the news contrives to frighten you
To make you feel small and alone
To make you feel that your mind isn't your own"--Morrissey

The world has gone crazy, but please let me make you

One of my healing songs. You can eat it now, if you want. Or

It might taste better when it's fresh, but you can also take

It with you on many long journeys. The world has gone crazy,


But not everyone has turned into a gun.  The world has

Gone crazy, but the gardeners have not been wiped completely out

Of our familiar heads. They are still there, planting beauty and sustenance

With every sweet whistle. The birds and the beasts may run from


Our home fires, but they still crave the tender touch. The world

Has gone crazy, but it's not the first time. The world

Has gone crazy, but we have not forgotten any of them. They were

Children once before the adults experimented with their innocence.  The world


Has gone crazy, and we must forgive them for that horror,

But we won't join them on their march either. World's gone bonkers,

But the sky is still as on our side as it can ever

Be, diluting the pollution with its own perfumed oils, painting the warnings


On the canvas of stars like always, with exuberance and sometimes

Heart-rending beauty. If you bend down and watch the semaphores of

The tiniest butterflies, you will see that they are saying that

Home is eventually to be found in every direction. The world has gone crazy,


But there is a way to remain sane, if not safe,

And that is up to each one of us to decide.

It's not a trick, it's a choice, it's a living prayer

And an act, but it cannot be coerced, only given away, only


Received and always passed on. Bless everyone you meet, but be prepared

To defend each blade of grass beneath your feet. The world

Has gone crazy, but we cannot go with it. You'd be

Surprised how much a merry little tune in the middle of the


Fight can prevent further bloodshed. If you can't hear one, make

One up. The world has gone crazy and I don't want

To pretend this doesn't make me sad, but not so sad

That I no longer care. The world has gone crazy, but


There are little blue flowers pushing their soft faces against the

Protective plastic shields of modern living and struggling to make a

Noise of their own. My guess is they have something important

To say. And I want to listen. I will be listening for


As long as I can be. We don't have to drink the

Spouted-off hatred of others. Turn it down. Pour it out. Knock it out

Of the hands of your friends and family. The world has

Gone crazy, but we're still here if we keep


Our love alive in everyone everywhere. That is the hope. Yeah,

It's a pretty big concert to throw. So I guess we'd better get started.

Remember I made this one up for you out of nothing

More than a friendship on paper, but it's worth something more each time. dp 

Bonus poems:

A Song the Lorax Taught the Table While We Were Playing Cards Late into the Evening by Darryl Price(an early draft)


The trees have become afraid of our love song. They used to bend forward with all their might, clicking into place and building impressive physics. Now they carry their frames backwards and upward trying to flee something always behind us. We were not good shepherds. We only wanted something to eat and a

place to sleep. You can see it in the faces of the colonized leaves. They hate us. The trees have become afraid of our love song. It used to mystify them and bring them into listening range. Then we fired the first shot, we swung the first axe, we cleared centuries of their stories and put them in toothpick jars.

They used to love our determined broken trails through the snow, but now they toss the moon high above our heads and weep. Their armor is broken all the way through. Even the haunted forests have become more abandoned than full of millions of tiny lights. The trees have become afraid of our love

song. They are shutting their eyes again and ascending to the heavens without us. Maybe at the top of the world they still throw flowers at each other. The trees have become afraid of our love song. They hear it now as the end. Their march is no longer to reach the center of everything, and join in a

beautiful, joyous windy celebration of branches and bark. They need a healing circle, but it's all in their heads now. Only the saplings have the old dreaming heart, but even they are caged and kept behind miles of tar and soot. The trees have become afraid of our love song. That seems a real shame. Where

do we go from here? A butterfly with something important to say is still going to have a very tough time being heard as anything more than a butterfly up to butterfly things. The trees have become afraid of our love song. It is printed on their hardened faces. They do not agree with the meaning of lots of space. The trees

have become afraid of our love song. But some of us want to understand again. Some of us would like to be part of the healing circle without causing any pain to other living beings. Some of us will always admire the fierce beauty of their construction and join the council in the sky to pledge our own individual

devotion to their rooftop safety in this craziest of worlds yet. The trees have become afraid of our love song But, this song before you is a poet's attempt to make contact and say we are indeed friends forever. You will be included in our thoughts and prayers. Nothing would be the same without you. Thanks for such a lovely hill. .   

These Poor Creatures by Darryl Price

These creatures have always wanted 
to carry us far away with 
everything beautiful. Their true 
feelings seem to be ones of an  
insatiable hunger. These poor 
creatures shun anything that feels 
like it might make them smile without 
even trying. They're dangerous
to the environment just standing 
there. They love gluing weapons of 
every shape and size onto their 
hidden bodies. They are prepared 
for all out war at all times. Can 
you imagine them as simple 
growing children? Ironically 
they are extremely childish in 

their pulpits and cruel in their soft
polished seats, but no child is left 
within their darkened eyes. See how
they communicate in smoke fits 
and mirror tantrums? You still want 
to see what you are up against? 
What they want to turn you into?
We've got to find a way to not 

only survive their coming but 
survive their going. A way to 
remain inwardly peaceful and 
by nature non-violent even 
as we take up arms to defend 
ourselves, our loved ones and others 
against their hideous trampling
through the sliced gardens and bruised skies.   

Beginning a Bright Red Day

by Darryl Price




Pick up any stick or stone and

you'll find the path again. Pick out any

lone star and it will shine just

for you. The rascal wind simply enjoys

messing about with your serious

nature. Listen to its screeching


(on purpose) love moans. It starts

the challenge. You could say stems are

like short wires that supply enough

juice to the leaves to brighten up even 

your darkest days. It's not a modern

miracle, it's a well-known (made-up) 


every day fact. When they're gone and

sunk back into the horizon

again just look for certain corners

of the sky that glow like skulls

on a beach. This still won't take you

home in an instant like a blast


of cartoon dynamite, but it can 

give you a somewhat truer meaning to carry

forward with you. A small torch,

if you only will use it, or

a super sudden, cool flashlight

to help you solve your latest mystery


of being surrounded

by so many footprints within

the ancient stone circle in a

foam-drenched dream by the sea. Something smooth

and tangible weighing in your

pockets besides your own diamonds to


warmly connect you with your own

unfolding sentences and help you

remember what you came here for...yep,

this is love. This is worth the salty rub.

This traveling far with no more

courage than a careful crab blinking


at another bright new day from a

moist bed of stranded seaweed and

gently swaying pebbles all gleaming

at the lifting sun like bathers

with no more urgent care than finding

the next wave to collide into.