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Monstrous Thing


by Darryl Price


It's only just a poem. The good 
that's in us is us. There's a monstrous 
thing trying to get out and ruin things. 
To unbalance everything standing 
on tiptoe. To end the dance. To grab 
the moment and burn it down to 
the flat ground. They are haunted gray souls 
looking for shells to inhabit as 
part of the battle, but still the good 
we are remains in us to the end 
of our beginning. Even if it 
is just a poem. The good that's in 
all of us is a fine way to start 
to hum back up to speed. Humming has 
been proven to change the sound of things 
by opening unexpected doors 
and sudden inviting windows in 
the overall melody. There are 
holes in the universe everywhere 
if you sing yourself one open. The 
whole universe hears you even if 
you only think it and adds your vibe 
to the knowing about itself. It's 
a poem in search of a poem. 
What could you possibly be afraid 
of? How deep is your love? Indeed. It 
is us. We are it. Grab it. Now let 
it go. Your love is deeper than you 
have ever imagined before. The
only poem is still being born.   



Bonus Poems:



I Love You More Than These Words

by Darryl Price


That's the trouble I'm in. There 
was once a time I would have 
immediately embraced 
that magic challenge with a 
lot of magic gusto of 
my own to spare. Now I see 
some dark things more clearly. You 

simply don't need my love. Not 
to be your best self. Not to 
complete your picture of your 
charming tender side. Not to 
shoot across the sky and fall 
out of the whole world again. 
Not to grow older. Not to 

recognize your own heart and 
soul. But these words are all I 
have. Everything else is an 
illusion created by 
a dream. I would have embraced 
that notion, too, if it meant 
that we could sit and have a 

fun conversation over 
coffee and morning trees and 
soft morning birds and rising 
glad morning flowers filling 
themselves in with new sun. A 
little breeze maybe. Some rain. 
Lots of leaves turning into 

lots of  blue shining stars. But 
these words will have none of that. 
They want to invent names for 
just you. The way you walk. The 
way you breathe. As if only 
then could you be told the mad 
alive feeling you create 

for those lucky enough to 
be cast around you. I get 
why he sang that song after 
he couldn't find you. Because 
maybe the words could. And if 
they could they might make a kind 
of difference at long last. 



Half a Chance(Gone)

by Darryl Price


There's nothing but a lazy poet here 
trying hard to not see the lost feelings 
of another broken heart. Add it to 
the wretched pile. You want me to sift through
the sad wreckage and find yours and do what 
with it? I can't return it to you. It's 
gone. Along with mine. And theirs. Our luck ran 
away a long time ago. Look. I'm not 

really that lazy, I just don't recall 
how to care anymore. More trouble. Look 
at us. We are barely clothed. No one is 
coming back now. This is that island where 
everything is too late. And we are those 
unfortunate ragged things left to dry 
our faces by the fire. Unloveable 
because we were made wrong to begin with. 

Doesn't matter if the fire was forged at 
home or not. The result is the same. We 
were given over to the enemy 
wolves.  Our smiles are on upsidedown when we 
are just being ourselves. More trouble. We 
were never found and the game ended a 
long long time ago. They are already 
onto the next bunch. Go on. Wish them luck. 



A Stupid Thing to Think

by Darryl Price


Stardust seems to live for a long time. 
I know you keep telling me you can't 
live forever. Stardust seems to last, 
through times forgotten and now in your 
dark eyes. It's like an ocean inside 
and outside every other ocean. 
Stardust seems to live for a long time 
after the last flicker of a fire. 
I don't mean to keep you from your own 

destination. I just want to say 
I see you among a billion bright 
butterflies and I don't even have 
to try. But that's just me talking way 
past the obvious point. I don't mean 
to lose focus here, but it's pretty 
nice to share a moment's breath with you. 
Stardust seems to live a long time. Love 
grows weak and weary and dies of an 

empty broken heart. You're lucky and  
you're alone and sinking in the left 
behind stardust again. You keep on 
telling me things that make me think the 
worse, but I'm going to empty that 
worn bucket out if it's the last thing 
I do. If it hurts, at least I've done 
an honest day's work. Stardust makes for 
our luck. It wrecks our expectations. 

Then it kicks us out the door we thought 
was our home. The possibilities 
along the way all wanting to be 
chosen. All I want is to say don't 
throw your life away. You have a true 
abundance of the stardust stuff. On the
other hand, I'm becoming less and
less visible as someone who is 
coming back for good. Stardust, sweet as wine.   
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