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Lucky Faces


by Darryl Price


 

The people with the lucky faces

Are always sneaking out more credit

For everything than they deserve. Maybe

They are right, maybe it's our fault

For buying into the myths of the

Land of mirrors. The people with the

 

Lucky faces haven't started as

Many wars as the people with the

Unlucky faces, but that's playing

With semantics. The people with the

Lucky faces are already at

The beach, are already drunk, are sure

 

They will make sunset—no matter what

The sea may say about changing its

Mind. The people with the lucky faces

Pretend to be only half awake

At any given time. The people

With the lucky faces will never

 

Make promises before three in

The afternoon. It's just not done. It's

Not that they have no problems to solve.

The people with the lucky faces

Look beautiful worshiping the sand.

I think we need to accept their devotion

 

As gifted grit. The people

With the lucky faces like machetes

Arrive safely across any

Packed room with practiced aplomb. I can't

Help it if they do. The people with

Lucky faces always stand next to

 

The intended target with big smiles.

The people with the lucky faces

Become bored again and again. The

People with the lucky faces are

No luckier than you and me on

Their appointed day, but feel smaller.  




 Small Offering


for Amanda M.


 

I've been putting off trying to write you something because

I don't know any words that could even come close

 

To saying the pain that I'm in over you. You don't

Deserve some poet's feeble attempt to make you smile. That's

 

Lame. I'm lame. Words are lame. They only skirt around

The issue like falling leaves. They only blow the rain

 

Against the house without gaining true entrance. Oh I'd make

Rainbows dance in swirling figure eights across your floor,

 

But I doubt you would be impressed. Your own presence

Is enough to cause countless stars to illuminate your strides

 

For free, with a proud sense of duty. So how

Is any poet equal to your gaze? You don't need

 

Flowers, but I'll bet every field is dreaming of achieving

That crown. All a poet can do is to hold  

 

His happy leaping mouth and hope that no lesser words

Leak out and spoil the sound the universe makes as

 

It adjusts itself around you in a perfectly natural fit.

No, I know my place. These words are only a

 

Small offering of passing thanks to someone who brought into

My brain a remembrance of all the things that matter

 

And always will do on this earth simply by being

Herself. That is no small thing, or if it is  

 

This is where all joyfulness lies waiting to happen to

Itself in the moment of transcendent fulfillment of all dreams. 




Bonus poem:



Flying Around A Happy Mountain Top


by Darryl Price



 

All that gut joy was finally reduced

To a date on a cheap piece of paper,

Left to dry, left to burn, to fade away—

Joy that once smiled in a very real way.

Here. Let me try. Just let me. All that joy

 

Like gunpowder residue on our souls.

All that joy with its own burning bright sun.

After that all that sticky joy went dark

As any surrender to any form

Of destruction of any future fun.

 

All that cutting joy left us tattooed for

Life. All that meaningless joy was turned off

By the powers that be, from some childish

Need for revenge for the innocently

Run cartoon of your life. Can't you see them

 

Pushing back their chairs in disgust—oh it's

All over now. All that free joy, please say

You remember me. I refuse to feel

Guilty about not wanting to kiss you

Politely. All that joy was a laugh from

 

The inside out. All that joy was a great

Place to be, a lustful look square into

The eyes of all life everywhere. All that

Wild joy kicked you in the head and you thanked

Your lucky stars for it. That joy was us

 

Making something terribly delicious

Out of a happy mountain of sad lies,

And it worked beautifully. All that joy

Breaking down walls. Yammering on and on

Like school children. All that joy doomed to fail.


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