Maybe Just One More Then

by Darryl Price


You don't deserve this poem and I 
don't deserve to write it. Whatever 
time we have left is way better spent 
sitting in a sunny garden with 
a good interesting book and with 
a beautiful golden delicious 
apple to bite into. But apples 
have become the old cell phones of our 
famous time and books have become like 

ruined statues. I know you are tired of 
waiting. I am too and I've only 
been waiting a lifetime. Yet I still 
believe in blue clouds and I guess that 
means that I still believe in you. I 
don't know if that will ever help you 
out or not. You've not done anything 
to earn this poem, but that's not the 
way poems work. They like to choose their 

own subjects and freeze out a poet's 
imploring mind until they get their 
pouting way. Then it's all kisses and 
squeezing hugs. Makes a poet sick or 
maybe just mad. You don't deserve this. 
I don't even know why I'm still here 
at all. There's just something about your 
pretty face that moved a monstrous wall 
outside of my broken heart's window 

yesterday and suddenly I could 
see the ocean opening up its 
buttoned down collar into rolling 
waves and could hear the searing seabirds soar 
into refreshing winds, playing sounds 
together like guitar strings. I don't 
like liars so I wasn't going 
to become one for you. Maybe you 
do deserve this poem and I am 

just waking up to that fact myself. 
I mean I'm pretty sure you do. I 
just don't think I'm doing it justice. 
Which makes me want to run away. That 
seems like the safer thing to do here. 
Just take off. Leave the thing half buried 
in the paper sands. Walk away. No 
one will ever know the difference. 
You won't even know. But I will. I 

must. And so here I am. You do so 
deserve this poem. You don't know you 
do, so I'm knowing that for you. That's 
my job. Problem is, it leaves me with 
another hole in my pocket. So 
to speak. That's also my lot in life.
I don't mind. This poem is for you.
There. I've said it out loud. The whole world
isn't listening. They never do.  

Bonus Poems:

The Song the Lorax Taught the Table while We Were Playing Cards Late into the Evening One Night by Darryl Price(a Revised Version)


The trees have become afraid of our love song. They 

used to bend forward with all their might, clicking into 

place and building impressive physics. Now they carry their frames

backwards and upward trying to flee something always behind us. 

We were not good shepherds. We only wanted something to 

eat and a

place to sleep. You can see it 

in the faces of the colonized leaves. They hate us. 

The trees have become afraid of our love song. It 

used to mystify them and bring them into listening range. 

Then we fired the first shot, we swung the first 

axe, we cleared centuries of their stories and put them 

in toothpick jars.

They used to love our determined broken 

trails through the snow, but now they toss the moon 

high above our heads and weep. Their armor is broken 

all the way through. Even the haunted forests have become 

more abandoned than full of millions of tiny lights. The

trees have become afraid of our love

song. They are 

shutting their eyes again and ascending to the heavens without 

us. Maybe at the top of the world they still 

throw flowers at each other. The trees have become afraid 

of our love song. They hear it now as the 

end. Their march is no longer to reach the center 

of everything, and join in a

beautiful, joyous windy celebration 

of branches and bark. They need a healing circle, but 

it's all in their heads now. Only the saplings have 

the old dreaming heart, but even they are caged and 

kept behind miles of tar and soot. The trees have 

become afraid of our love song. That seems a real 

shame. Where

do we go from here? A butterfly with 

something important to say is still going to have a 

very tough time being heard as anything more than a 

butterfly up to butterfly things. The trees have become afraid 

of our love song. It is printed on their hardened 

faces. They do not agree with the meaning of lots 

of space. The trees

have become afraid of our love 

song. But some of us want to understand again. Some 

of us would like to be part of the healing 

circle without causing any pain to other living beings. Some 

of us will always admire the fierce beauty of their 

construction and join the council in the sky to pledge 

our own individual

devotion to their rooftop safety in this 

craziest of worlds yet. The trees have become afraid of 

our love song. But, this song before you is a 

poet's attempt to make contact and say we are indeed 

friends forever. You will always be included in our thoughts 

and prayers. Nothing would be the same without you. Thanks 

for such a lovely hill.   

Some of the Poems You Forgot to Remember by Darryl Price

are starting to feel a little left out 
of your life at this point.You do
remember being asked by them to always keep
them in their original origami wrappers? As I

recall one was a seahorse you were particularly
fond of calling a sea dragon. Another was
a caterpillar you liked to keep in a 
fruit bowl for laughs with your other less

serious friends. And of course let us not
forget your favorite--the typewriter ribbon that also
served as a tiny kite on windy days. 
Some of the poems, short and stumpy robots 

meant to stare you down from your high 
horse. And some were actual wild horses visible
for a moment on top of disappearing hills
outside your window. Others were raindrops I suppose

playing a sad and lonely song on the 
soaking heads of certain summer flowers. But that's
just another word for dream. I grew them 
into a garden meant to communicate something that 

can't be said with words. But here I 
am gathering what remains into sentences like an
old comedian on a gong show waiting for 
the inevitable missed cue to ring inside my 

ears for the last time. The poems you 
forgot wanted me to say goodbye. It's not 
much to offer after such a long trial 
period of mutual creative shennanigans but  I do

my best to let you down easy. Some 
you forgot have faded away now to paintings
of sail boats bobbing in an endless loop
of sunset and dissolving cloud as you pass by. dp