On Global Warming

by Darryl Price


You think I don't know, that's your

whole stupid problem. You don't

believe in anyone. You

must enjoy living in a

dark lonely universe. I 

don't know if you know or not

about the lights that live in

your own head, but I believe

you probably will one day,

and I also believe it


doesn't matter. I'm making

some new music here where I

am. I'm just painting pictures

of paragraphs with reeds on

their trilling faces, but it 

might as well be butterflies

who live to see just how high  

things grow. The world is a big

kitchen sink kind of place, I

like to walk around, see the


goofy gallery all for

myself. Yeah sometimes I trip

over the mess in the far

stairs corner, but then I usually

find it's just the 

next changing of the seasons.

I don't want to hang a sign

upon a sad beautiful

tree for you, well maybe some

other time, you know. Because


I'd rather spend this rainy

Saturday afternoon at

my local bookshop looking

through the poetry books for

nothing but fun. So yes, I'm 

glad I'm alive and bouncing.

You think your knowledge is all

there is to flying a kite,

but that's just what a closed mind

looks like on global warming.    

Bonus poem:

The Fuck-up by Darryl Price


We're all trying to get to someplace safe. If that's an illusion at least we once shared the dream. Not you, the others. The kids mostly. You don't like the million to one odds. I get it. You'd rather hedge your

bets with a little emotional blackmail on the side. If I only had your coldhearted stare as you walk away from the crying fires again and again. But I made my only sane choice for me a long time ago. You and I

were never meant to be smiling friends. We could be lovers if you got to dress up for the part where you walk away with your finger high up in the air. Such a swaddled in dark scarves martyr. It had nothing to

do with you. Being lost all me. Being lonely, me as well. You've never had to be lonely and walk through it alone. You've never looked at a familiar street and wondered how to get home again before being

cruelly captured by all the menacing many-eyed trees. Must be nice. I don't know. Maybe it's just as boring to a long-nailed soul that won't stop spinning in its self-made bed. Karma may well have been the

third party in our paradise apartment, but she still wouldn't leave until we kicked her out and swallowed the key. I don't remember when I fell from grace because you wrapped your blindfold around my eyes

so quickly, so neatly. The bruises just began to appear out of nowhere and I felt myself slipping away. Then I did the only possible thing. I opened the door to one of my poems and disappeared down the

unknown sinkhole looking for the lost wishes I must have dropped into the well with the rest of my change. I came out poorer, but clearer, and I'm still making my way back to a physical reality holding onto a familiar hope.