by Darryl Price

I'm writing you this letter played on a 
cherry flute. I'm sending it along through 
the poem's cloud of incense. The only 
delivery system I still hitch up 
for long distance pitching. I'm writing you 
a letter you'll probably never read. 
Never get. Never know exists. I'm not 
going to wake the sleeping cats of mad 
despair. That's not what this is being made 
for. I'm writing you a letter because 

I had no idea how far we would 
be washed away from each other. Or for 
how long. I have been looking for you on 
every laughing face. In every full orange  
moon voice. Every pilgrim wind. Between the 
iron gates, looking at the evergreen clouds. 
I'm sure life has found you, as it found me, 
and forced the long march on your tired feet. But 
this letter is not about bitter things. 
So I want you to know I carried our 

love forward with me. I swallowed it whole 
rather than give it up. Many more times. 
Hiding it just within reach. I wanted 
the opportunity to show you I 
still have it within me, but as I am 
it, it becomes more and more like something 
silver slipping out of my open soul 
to join with all the other lights in the 
holy night sky. But these words are not what 
I wanted to say. These words are only 

ghost dragonflies, grains of ghost sand. I shall 
accept this emptiness, without blame. They 
were meant to be seeds to a travelling 
wonder only you could ever behold.
Instead they are yellow curling petals 
in the mouth of the wild wind's mind. I no 
longer can gather them into something 
profound for you. Those days are gone. If you'll 
forgive me, the way has become a death 
trap. And I'm very much deep inside of 

its buried lamps now. I'm writing you a 
letter because I miss you. I miss your 
sad smile full of songs. I miss the sacred 
ground under our favorite tree. Words are 
useless. I'm writing you a letter should
you ever need one. It means only one
thing: it's a mystery. All of it. From
top to bottom. But love is where I am
calling from. I'm writing you a letter
because you deserve one that isn't kicked

in the balls. Even so, I'm running out 
of foolish steam. Deep down, there still is that
grinning three words thing keeping us saving 
ourselves up for a rainy day that may  
or might not ever come. I don't care. I'm 
writing you this letter. The tide's coming  
back in. Thanks for the inspiration. Hope 
I gave friendship good as I got, hope I 
kept you from the stranger's ledge once or twice  
when you needed it. Sure. We'll meet again.  

Bonus poem:

Something New

by Darryl Price

"Man, you should have seen them kicking Edgar Allen Poe."--The Beatles

Don't you get it? I don't want to be like 
you. I made that obvious choice a long 
time ago when I discovered you were 
simply lying to me about all things 
beautiful in the world. The wounds I got 
at your hands for trusting myself did a 
lot of internal damage. They went in 
too deep. But your cartoon violence didn't 

ever change my mind. I still don't want to 
be like you. Think like you. Write like you. Or 
see like you. If you like my stuff or not 
now it doesn't matter. What matters is 
who you are inside your own room of skin 
and delicate bone. What matters is what 
you will do for others with your power 
to express and create the sky and earth 

around you. You're making the new world sprout 
from the ends of your pointy red, pounding 
fingertips every day, you're bound to get 
messed up sometime. Some times these things don't have 
anything to do with you. They have a 
most wondrous life of their own, which you can 
interrupt by not paying attention 
to where you are pointing that thing. What does 

matter is how often you gracefully 
accept your bad mistakes. Are you for real? 
Is that your definition of taking 
an authentic part in the universe? 
To pout about someone not liking you, 
the way you get things done? I won't ever 
want to be like you. I'm just a guy who 
likes to write poetry because it's fun.