My Paper Boats, Your Paper Boat

 

You make your art when you can and

Perhaps vice versa. You really

Don't know what that means? Consult your tarot. You make your

Art and visualize your mind

 

As a large pool of water. You

Make your art and if you're lucky

They may not want to talk to you about

Your methods. What do you have to say now, eh?

 

The only honest answer is

Whatever moves me because you

Don't want to put music or any other feeling in a cruel

Box. You make your art and renew

 

Your life in the process. You make

Your art and so plant your trees. Let's

Keep it simple, shall we? You make your art

And rediscover the courage

 

To live. You make your art and that's

What you are doing here in the first place. You make

Your art and show up without an approved

Appointment. You make your art and

 

Buy someone, a stranger, an ice cream cone. You make

Your art and dribble the ball. You

Make your art and all that sick crap

Becomes a beat up country map unto

 

Itself. You make your art and you

Go to the lonely crowded beach and you bring back

The color of the sky and the

Seashells in her far away eyes. You make your

 

Art and the most beautiful things tend to

Happen. But it's still only a small

Paper boat. You know the rest. You

Make your art and she continues

 

To float on by. You make your art

As you tear at the ugly mask on your face,

But it's too late. You make your art

And one day you'll be the dead thing

 

Losing bone slowly to the mud and grime. You make your

Art and you enjoy food less. You

Make your art and it feels so good,

Until it doesn't. Then you enter

 

The forest alone. You make your

Art and try hard not to smile at nothing. You make

Your art and smell of freshly turned over earth. You make

Your art and leave the ufo sightings

 

To the old musicians and their secret lovers.

You make your art and the whole scene

Full of stars begins to tremble

Under your skin like soft and red floating flowers. 

Bonus poems:

Your Boredoms(early draft)

by Darryl Price

The Flowers(first draft)

 

For Emily Dickinson

 

Home is gone. I'm an orphan now meaning I wasn't

Always so alone. Everyone I see is running from something.

But they still sail their candles to the moon hoping

To awaken someone on the other side of this glory

Who might send them back a kind thought or give

 

A smile in the form of birds. I've never received

The feather from the heavens with my name on it.

You and I are not alike in our dogs, but

I still like to think of you walking down streets

At night with yours, brushing the rain or the quiet

 

With an intensity unlike any other. That was your gift

More than your red hair, more than your refusal to

Give up your name or your fight with God and

The devil, believing both of them to be inadequate to

The task of being near enough to you to break

 

Your heart more than it already was. Instead you broke

Your own heart, and mine with it. Who knew you

Had power that could wait through centuries to explode like

A hurricane? Did the flowers ever know this? The Irish?

Perhaps the good children in the garden? All I know

 

Is here we are together again, not in a dream,

But in a sense of the world, getting near the

End of something terribly unimaginable and I only wish I

Had your hand to hold. I suppose that is very

Selfish of me. You let your hand go where it

 

Wanted to go and nowhere else. You gave it the

Most important task of all, to put your cruel abandonment

Into stored letters, without asking for forgiveness, without a script

Of regret. You telegraphed that pain to the stars and

Dared them to respond, all the while knowing full well

 

How they laughed behind your back. But the dog was

Faithful, the writing desk was faithful, the flowers were never

Going to go anywhere without you again, even the rain

On the windows was a companion you could count on

To see you as you truly were, valiant warrior with

 

A sewn booklet of original coded words, meant to open

Locks, meant to join clouds of butterflies. Your home now

Is everywhere, mine is still somewhat hazy in the distance.

I don't know why it means so much to me

To speak to you in this way. I'm not looking

 

For your answer. As Paul said to John, you'd probably

Say that we were worlds apart, but I feel something

Different today. I would have liked to see you smile

With some teeth, or the back of your head tied

In a ponytail instead of a bun. I think you

 

would have breathed a sigh of relief in a pair

of old comfortable jeans. You got a message to me.

I'm not talking about all the others here. This is

As much as I can do for you, but I'm

So glad. It's an honor. Thank you, oh singing wind.      

 Wheatfield, Columbus

 

When the sun explodes, can we

Still go to the dance? When the

Sun explodes, do we still get

Our vote? Do we have to wear

 

Uncomfortable clothing

In case anyone sees us

Who might think they are better

Than us because of money?

 

When the sun explodes, I think

I'm going to go swimming

In the nude and I hope you'll

Come with me. When the dear old

 

Sun goes on a sneezing rampage

I'll see if there are any

Seats left near the exit

Signs. When the sun explodes, perhaps

 

You would be kind enough

To let me hold your hand? When

The stars are flung against the

Far walls like burning paint, will

 

You try to remember my

Name for you when we have snuggled

Together for warmth? When

The sun explodes, I fully

 

Expect you to come walking

Through that door. When the sun bursts,

All my poems will become

A monument to our love.