by Darryl Price
Wish more than ever there was a more perfect way
to mean everything I say. If I could
I'd certainly walk all my words right up
to your face now and give them over, hand to
hand so to speak. That's the point at which I'd
very much love to vanish and return
to my cottage and collect all my cool
favorite things like books and go out the
front door forever. But we've got some more
living in front of us that demands we
take a few steps back inside the freeway first.
So all leaving the ground we danced upon
in flying dreams will have to wait. Meanings shall be
more thoroughly discussed with a table
full of dirty strangers. And journeys will
always be started when they are at the
beginning. This isn't to say we can't
be having a good bit of fun with the
current story as it is being told
through our own small spinning out restless enough spark lives. But
just remember this: dead friends don't return
to welcome us to our latest bout of
sick worry over whether or not we've
treated the sentences in our bloody
veins with the real respect that they so lovingly deserve.
Take all the bees. They can't do their fancy
jobs unless we do ours. They make the rounds
only if we will let them, and if we
somehow prevent them, we're slowly ruining
ourselves. The box contains all life, not just
some. Or then, thousands of whale lives. When we
slaughter them we murder whatever souls
depend on the chain of events as well.
This isn't anything new, nor is greed.
But a poet opens his mouth wide and
sings, he can't shut the hell up. What he sings about
is what the world sees. Still there may be several
ways of seeing that require many more
secret sets of words. These we put into
your hands like thieves in the night because our
business is to do our business,
any more is to step over boundaries
clearly already established. Yet in these times
and ages a true and lasting poet
may have to swing the anvil and shoe the
new pony as well as plow the field and
mow the hay until midnight tomorrow morning.
There is no relief from what must be done,
and there is no other, better doer
of deeds than you are right here and right now, my friend.
This should be obvious. However these
scars of markings before you are put in
timeless good shape and not to thwart your steps
at all, but to bid you welcome.
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Bonus:2 early drafts
A Century of Art(draft version)
Everything in this chummy place talks
towards you without stopping, turns into
fruits and grains, filling the room
with definite color. Each color can
have a distance to it that
folds like a household of individual
hums. I've lived in several of
these exploding rooms myself because I
was lifted on the tip of
a possessed brush by someone who
loved me enough to touch me
down on their own afternoon canvas.
These lives we lead are so
much more than just for ourselves
to enjoy, but the pain and
problems are real. Still when you
see yourself represented as wheat or
clouds or even by invisible winds
blowing at the harbor you can't
help but be amazed at the
fertile mind of the creative life.
It obviously sits all around us
simply waiting to be turned on
by the right fingers at the
right time like the undulating wharves of
dawn with its many dreams of
illuminated, gliding fish. It's enough to
get you to the next light.
A Plea for a Different Color Sky
This one is making me feel particularly
so numb. It frightens the someone inside
me who is already a little scared
of everything going. I know the obvious
choice is to wait and quietly return,
to listen and to always enjoy what
is on the present screen. Sometimes I
can do this with no more pain
than a small lump in the throat.
Other times like right now I wish
for a warm hand to press mine
to, with nothing more present than that
one simple act of pure, unselfish human faith.
All rights reserved.
The author has not attached a note to this story.