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Old Beat-Up Trunk (containing a History of Forgotten Paintings)


by Darryl Price



 

The world can still be viewed as a honey 

drop of sparkling rain, but not all washed up 

tears can be revealed as such. The stories 

swirling inside are constantly shifting 

their own gears, searching for the lost highway, 

and sometimes actually finding it. There 

is plenty of love going on, and a 

constant one all around us, I'm told, but 

those eternal shining angels can get 

very bored with all that, and put down their 


heavy feathers and grow long horns just for  

the sheer hell of it. People do get caught 

in the middle of these petty holy 

wars over nothing but newly told lies. 

In the meantime all you can do is, well, 

whatever you want, hoping that something 

someday matters to somebody, in the 

bitter or peaceful end. In our youngest 

times we made plenty of interesting 

rhymes and growled right back at the thunder with

 

our own pretty versions of a beautiful 

noise. If it baffled the many, we 

still really believed in doing it. This 

is more than a trunk full of old paintings, 

my friend, it is a map to the constant 

present tense where all the best opportunities 

for living an authentic life

are constantly being restored and refurbished. 

Look at our cute hats! We wore them 

to make each other happy. Look at our


goofy round shoes! We wore them to get you

to grin not exactly smile with teeth. This 

whole Earth thing was meant to celebrate with

you in spite of the nefarious gangs 

of political thieves terrorizing 

the groovy flower scene with their infantile 

tantrums of hate and money. Of course 

we knew they would criticize us no matter 

what we did, or wrote, or sang, or painted 

across their skies. Sometimes a perfect

 

world is more of an imperfect try at 

simply bringing something new to the table, 

something wild and unpopular, something 

deemed impossible, something that just 

feels good if you let it, something more fun 

than functional. We fit altogether 

then. Then we decided we didn't. Someone's 

got that missing piece in their hands right 

about now. I'm not saying it's you, but 

it very well could be. That's up to you.




Bonus stuff:



Look What They've Done To The End of My Song, Maharishi


by Darryl Price


 

The air is a nice surprise, once you get over

The cold. The first thing I wanted to do was

Turn my palms up to the sun like solar panels

And juice up. After that everything comes back to blossoms

And stems and more leaves. Then the thoughts return to

Their rightful places, resting among your hair like daisy chains,

Or follow the path of your walking feet like ecstatic

Gypsies, tranced-out, making  new music out of whatever is available.

 

This is the circle of my life, well outside the

Worn away seasons, and it has its own traveling forests

That provide the heart with its many windows. Every branch

Provides enough mystery to keep the skipping splashing water wheels

Turning in time. I'm as surprised as you, but not

Nearly as turned out. Poems won't allow any dishonest shadows

Cast. And I'm not interested in pursuing half-truths in order

To appear less sad. I've made my bell. I won't

 

Abandon its one true blessing just because you are tired

Of hearing something I never said. That was just a

Tide. That was a very still shell crunched beneath a

More vigorous lilac wind. The gulls might have heard an

Ache in the newborn grains of sand. I don't know,

But I can guess. Love is always beginning. That's what

Keeps it so much younger than you, not the other

Way around. Sorrow doesn't pass on the chance to speak

 

Of joy. My path is not your strange rabbits running

Under the apple tree like landlubber bees, but a mystifying moment

All its own. I give it to you, but not

To keep. I'd like it remain butterfly wild and hummingbird

Free, but those are just the colors I prefer. Once

More we come to the end of my song. I'm

Happy to make it in your name. If I disappear

In a deep, deep sea, I go my own dreamer.




Bonus material:



I Would Kiss You


I would kiss you if I thought

You needed kissing. I would

 

Touch your hair if I wanted

To feel the wind in my face.

 

I'd walk holding your hand if

I wanted to listen to it

 

Rain. I'd write you a song if

I couldn't think of anything

 

Else to say about the

Beauty that surrounds us. I'd

 

Embrace you if I sought an

Explanation for what's always in

 

My heart. Again I'd kiss you

If I thought it might comfort

 

You, leave you without any regrets,

But I would have to be sure.

 

I would kiss you because I'd

Want to remember what we

 

Came here for, to this poem's

House, to the combustible

 

Planet's inviting window, the time that

Goes on and on shaking the night like a freight train.




 Mirror

 

Take these pretty poetry things before

They are finished, you know you

Want to. Take all the pale

Fingers fluted with rings, the nails

Becoming visible at last like the

Sails of great ships, the bones

 

Beneath the waves holding the life-force

In its place, ripe with pulsating

Branches of many bells, and eat

Them, drink them, become them. Take

As many tall trees as you

Can and stuff them into the

 

Cotton bags of clouds like dried

Snakes. Take clouds and float them

Across a mirror. Take a river

Then and pour it on your

Hair like a silk scarf and

Laugh out loud. Throw your head

 

Back, open up your throat like

Never before and finally light up

The night like a good little

Star. Of course they won't listen.

But put your hands deep into

The fields of stars and pull out

 

All the moons you are meant

To know, and get to know 

Them. Remember this, a garland of

all the roses in all the

world isn't enough. The streaming morning

sun isn't enough. Only love's enough. 


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