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I Like the Celebration


by Darryl Price


 

 

But please, don't let me fall into any more smaller pieces than I already have, before

I get to kiss someone again and really mean

It.  I'm pretty sure I've always believed in something more positive than just hate. I've

 

Always felt its lovely hidden energy, just below the surface of all living things, I just don't  know what to call

It that doesn't make it sound like just another boring-me-to-pieces

Storyboard afraid to die of an even more boring laid open march of stale and normal  

 

Paragraphs, before it gets to change the world for the somewhat better off. If

I could take the dear closest moment at hand, I'd very much like to thank, yes, 

You without a trace of any bitter irony about the nature of good luck, when I tell

 

You that I think you were wrong then and you're probably

Just as wrong now. All the fun things we cared so much

About are still gathered together in my active brain, and on the banks of my dreams, by the  needs of my hopeful hopes, like a brown and polluted river of utter private trees. No one can live in Paradise without going crazy. I like

 

The wildest things in this world just fine, and the exact way and the where that they

Are happening to be at this very minute, thank you very much. I'm pleased as punch whenever a new modern dancer

Just happens to spring up out of the latest nowhere, and then just as beautifully done  as a rainbow on fire surrounds us with his all consuming tickling arms until we can't  resist her many charms any more without being called out as liars by our own deepest revolving artful selves alive.

 


 

 

 

 

 

We Are Eating and Sleeping Through Galaxies(a draft)

 

until the window's thrown white horses start digging such soft warm

hoofs into the floor's already dream-soaked flattened out back only makes

this gathering of exotic birds that much more obvious to no

 

one in particular. No wonder swimmers smile so gracefully. I don't

worry about that. I have my own strokes to carve the wet

hour with while waiting alone for communications to get a little

 

easier in the moist and weeded out soil. I'd like it to be beautiful, but

I think it must be already or not. I see what survives us everywhere I go.  

True love's timeless beaches. There is nowhere else I can fly deeper than that today.

 

 

The light they hate to love (revised version)

by Darryl Price


 

The light they hate to love
is always (so very much!)
pulsating; the unbelievable
color sword
of what happens when
any two persons find
each other in their hearts
and all pretense is somehow
gone for at least that
one laughter of a time. The
dove
some loathe to acknowledge
so clearly is the
same old mystery that
begins at the very
edge of another perfect sky--its
flowers-- petals and all-- and continues
all the way through
to the insides of root
pale until you find yourself
(poof!)standing outside
the gates once more.How does
this thing continually happen to happen to us?
Let me tell
you.Look.They will mash them
to sorrowful bits with
their meaty fingers pressed
into boulders of fury
and still it will not
yield up one honey drop
of its secret salve to them.There
is no
good to be had, they will scream
at you. Life is only
a cruel enough lie, they will wail and moan inside a dead man's chest like the ghostly pirates they are and they'll demand; demand, demand,
they will strangle it out
of you then, all out of
your throat, but nothing will
stop the endless stream of
pleasure that newly
comes
forth from doing absolutely
nothing,no hope,nothing
to be gained from,again
and again and again.Amen.
They'll plant sad awful fields
and harvest the bitter
grains and send them all
around the world. There are
those fools greedy
enough
to buy in if the price
is cheap enough. They will
also mix it into your
fondest dreams, weave it inside
your very clothing,
lace your coffee and donuts
with enough fear to
bring down an elephant herd
to
its saggy knees. And
still there will be genuine
laughter somewhere. And still there
will be small bewildering
acts of total benevolence somehow.
And still there
shall be poets singing
about stars and moons with their
long blue rivers of clouds
upon more enigmatic
clouds and healing hands reaching out of there like gleaming sailboats
for the simple joy of asking.
050510--10-22-12
 
 
 

There are those among us who are always going to be only out for themselves. They take, they don't ask, and if you get in their way they justify their actions with violence. These people are sad beyond repair, and dangerous to every forest creature, including man and woman. And yet, if there is love, and yet, something in the world will laugh at their folly, and refuses to give in to their childish demands for more and more of everything. It only takes one small flower to prove just how wrong they are and always have been. And always will be.



The Ticking Situation

(revised-- scrambled eggs version)

Beauty belongs in its own
garden. How close
the villains are!
Not all are brothers.

Beauty doesn't need to show
more proof. How harshly these
raindrops howl! We
are not all water.

Beauty remembers nothing
for long. There is no
you and me. There's
you. There's only me.

Beauty will remain under
a blue sky. Bugs climb
into one hand
and out the other.


Inside a Past

by Darryl Price


we held our weeping to

wall after wall of trees.

Scattering bones still spelled

out home because they knew

no other name. Savage

time can only throw dice

against the wall over

and over again, it

doesn't really make the

poor rough animals stay

less hungry for the soft

beguiling moon above which they

always seem to think is

only resting in a

shallow fuzzy lake just

waiting for someone to

bend inside the latest

illusion of far too

many stars and retrieve

its glare at long last. It must

after all be the most

delicious, singular

fruit of all time. Who among

us wouldn't want to

wait for that fat wet taste to appear on our tongues?

Plenty of us. Sadly

to say a number stayed

right where they froze and died

in their lighted, vacant

positions, not ever

finally knowing that

only freedom can guarantee

ownership forever

and forever isn't coming.

The story doesn't change

because it is the same as before.

No matter how many times

they hang you, we are the

remembrance in all your

deepest dancing senses,

we are the spark that sets

off the next new wave of rare

feelings, we are the brightest

upright fingers that will

daily reach for the sun's

welcoming face like train

tracks to mars, we'll never

stop, we will find your love if it kills us.

Darryl PriceOctober 29, 2012



Author's Note

The past is still with us, near, because of course it informs us of the continuation of all being, through sorrow, through joy, through tenderness,through the unexpected. We can't escape it just because we put on new clothes. The game is the same. To survive, to find meaning before it all changes again. To reach out and find each other and deliver the love that means the most and bring it on home.

 

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