I Want to Sing To You

 

without looking at the words. I want to draw a picture of you

without setting my hat on fire. I want to swing you around in an open field

without thinking something's bound to go wrong. I want to touch your hands

without resorting to an old map found buried in a book on fairies.

 

To run with you in the downpour without looking for a quick squeezed

way in. Want to remember your face because it's resting in my fingers like a cherry

pit. I want to sit with you in front of the ocean without

planning to take one shell. I want to find you in a garden

 

without thinking I should remove my shoes first and put them under a  

rose bush for safe keeping. I want to give you that dance without dropping all blanks

in the chamber for good luck. I want to embrace your name without

falling into an unmade ditch of spears head first. Want to drink your  

 

trance without going home and putting myself to bed afterwards. I want to

play my guitar like a wounded warrior without having to explain the nature of all scars.

I want to leave my most careless poems on your doorstep without having

to fold up all the moonbeams into neat little rows before I go.

Feb. 2015

Bonus poem:

You Can Push Things(a daft first draft)

 

to the back of your mind like a box of unpacked beloved

books if you want, but that's no life I want to explore

any further with you. We don't have as much time as we

once did to believe in something other than an empty bottle of

dreams. Love is still real even when the mud begins to fizzle

and leap out of its own way. That's all I wanted to

 

say. I don't believe their lies any more now than I did

before I went missing. They want you to spit your love on

the ground like bitter drugs. To tear the bells out of the

golden dragon infested clouds like a fistful of wires. To sink the

last of the flower petal boats with heavy rocks. To smash all

singing birds to death against the brick walls. But I don't buy

 

their latest diet wars. Their brand name barrels of bargain smoking guns.

Their greasy gravy jars full of deliciously simmering coiled bombs. Their sick

little insurance run churches of the barbecued nightmares of innocent children. Listen.

Love is always going to be all even when all else is

floating to the burning ground. That's what I want you to remember

you already know. I'm not trying to get you to do anything

 

you don't want to do deep down inside. Don't join anything on

my behalf. I don't care.  Just don't be boring. This poem is

where I stand. It's not some silly broken mystery rotting in a

rough hewn cave. I live in the same real world as you. And again.

Love is all you need. They want you to turn in your

hopes, but you know better. Love is like the sky, all around.

 

Darryl Price     Wednesday,July 02, 2014