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Like a Pop Song This Is the Head of a Sunflower


by Darryl Price


This is the head of a sunflower as well
as the butt of a beetle as well as
the membrane with its busy veins of traffic between
sky and cloud as well as the upside down skeleton
of a raindrop as well as the groove twisting
 
in a line around your sweet kissable thumb as
well as the balding white spot scuffed atop the
toe of your mowed down old moose slippers as
well as the polished slick talons on the eagle
somewhere pumped up from the kill as well as
 
the moment the feeling flag slaps its stitches against
the pant legs of the day begging for an ice cream
as well as a tired old poet making a
sad grunting noise through his chin as he types
with one finger as well as the colorless mass
 
of cocoons blowing away on any given spring day
and turning into flowers tying on their new bonnets
as well as you still crammed into my heart
like a folded map I've kept for all these
years or a message I've never been able to
 
code out or like some pyramid on the horizon
I just can't seem to ignore anymore even though
I want to as well as the milky way flying
through outer space like a swirling rush of water all
lit up from within from its own blushing crush
 
on life as well as this unwieldy ball of
sentences as well as this fishing line cast into
the unknowable electric currents of now and never and
maybe forever eh as well as a tiny spastic
hope clinging to a fast falling building as well
 
as any dream lingering on the edge of sanity
as well as the boy who forgot to go
home and grow up as well as the girl
who fingered her hair and smiled at the boy
as well as vanished years that tumbled into rainbows
 
012610 





Bonus poem:


Forever Stars by Darryl Price

 

The time to be remade as authentic men and

women is finally come, deeply creeping up

our shores with its final blessing in hand. We've been

living here among the nameless reminders for

lost centuries and they have done their colorful

dances all around us in the hotel lobby

 

of the heavenly hosts. Sacrificial soldier

bees have kept their favorite lilies coming to

the happy surface for electrical shoulder

stimulation and visited every other

monastery on the planet. Ambassador

butterflies have landed and left the wind sprinkled

 

with a new jam of the same forever skies in

a velvet tribute to the sadly fallen. The

missing moons have spread their smiling out robes over

the world's sleepers like a glistening dreaming wave.

But now the tatters of our tears must tell as well

another tale. Something else must be done for those

 

who know us not. A new world is coming. We must

leave for sharing a guiding kind and strong music

once more for its mindful passage to the unknown

spaces ahead so that it always includes the

best things we remember as beautiful and good.

This is no time to worship ancient shells. Oceans are gone. 


Don't think water. Think people. There are those who will

always drive the submarine to the coordinates

to halt the end of the world, but they won't stick

around to watch you blame each other. The time is

on its own as are we. There are fascists inside

every species. The garden should remain open

 

despite the dangerous flying insects. Its gates

should always spell friendship and hope. This is no time

for coded cries for help. We must gain the wall and

keep it in our hearts that what will always come is

what we have given to be made truthfully in

our selves. This is the unbreakable mystery. dp


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