It's a Beautiful Banana Moon

by Darryl Price


and I can't help it if it is. I

know it won't stay that way for long, but

for now that's all I've got to work with, shining

in my window, made of all eight fingers

and a couple of thumbs. But the latest pushy

words still want to give themselves over 

to you tonight like ants marching on the beach. I

definitely tried to stop them. I

even said you wouldn't want them to

be so boldly needy right now, since

knowing nothing of their very artful plans

for a love song later on tonight. And so,


nothing quite as new as a golden

nugget of hope cracked open on a struck rock, for you

or for me, so full of potential

as a gestating pearl might be. It's just a

regular miracle fruit in a

deep blue basket of folded, wadling about 

stars, wanting to spoil or rotten, or

be eaten, but that's a pretty far

stretch to go for a potassium

high, don't you think? Guess I just wanted you to know

about this particular Thursday

moon because you seem to like such things.


They kind of belong to you. They make their zigzag way

to you like sleepy children or half

dozing cats, finding just the right size

crevice among your hills and valleys

to fall asleep in, dreaming at once

of warm comfortable satellites of love, just like the song. 

Not my fault I say. Blame it on the

flimsy inflated orb we're all going on about. That plastic

toy started all this mess with its tricky mesmerizing

transformations. All I did was put

two and two together and add up

the poem to equal you, which it definitely did. The end.

Bonus poem:

That color of sky in the sky we get to 

have together is like the perfect world in this case, 

the case of me trying to say something without sounding 

too awfully stupid. I don't even see why you of 

all people need the company of words, it's me that 

needs them. They're like a brilliant pair of glasses. Whatever 

you are seeing now you don't need my words to 

survive. But here we are. I'd at least like to 

present you with a token of my care: these days 

of you have been perfect for me. I'm not silly, 

I know we won't be able to remain enchanted by 

all the world's simple things. But right now they all 

tend to make me realize how beautiful you are among 

them. I find it fascinating to note that even a 

blade of grass has a tendency to remark to strange  

clouds your feet alone provide me with some sense of 

gladness for all things living everywhere. These are my own true words.