Our Handsome Whales

by Darryl Price


are speaking clear enough, through their open and

bleeding wounds, for you to at least try and understand. Waving their

massive arms like living lighthouses, bobbing in and

out of the floundering waves, they are splashing


out an urgent, intelligent S.O.S. and it doesn't

have anything to do with managing sharks. Their ancient

and eternally beautiful songs are full of courage

and sadness for more than their own kind.


Slaughtered dolphins are filling the sky coves with

their own dying prayers for mercy for their

scared young ones, but the brutal men are dumber

than their sea cousins and cannot think of


anything else to do with their heavy clubs.

Money demands a new sacrifice be made every

hour. The coral reefs have had enough of

eating nothing but plastic garbage, out of an


incredibly dirty bowl, and are turning harder and

whiter than cavestone. Is it any wonder the

lovely little starfish have all lost their legs and

do nothing but roll between the empty rocks


like lumpy bits of soggy leftover dust and

dull debris? The poets sweep upon the shore

between playing their shanty songs to the ears

of stars, like Christ all alone in the


innocent hanging gardens, and a blind man looking

for a divine glimpse of something like a

friendly crack of light in this endless night of earth.

It's no one else's net. Pull in and


think. We are the ones who control the

final harvest. We've all the weapons of mass

destruction. Our hearts are big enough to

do the right thing and still manage all the gold.

Bonus poems:

Photograph by Darryl Price


Well here we were at the next new beginning of

Casually looking back over our tired shoulders and I don't

Mind telling you I don't feel the exact same urgent

Need to have the window rolled down so much on my side now.


This time to remember how it looks to have everything

Coloring the sky before us again. The one broken thing

I've always wondered about is why you took off in

That waiting red car with the blacked out mirrors when


All you had to do was ask for your own

Dreaming stars at the night desk. I guess it's really true what

They say, nothing really matters. We get the perfect journey we're

On and nobody can change the common sense of that particular

 punch in the stomach.

What's written on the passing pavement is coming off our

Pressing feet in sticky scribbles. These lifelines sometimes get tangled up

With other folk's thirsty searching roots, and another younger story

Emerges and demands all our best time and top-most energies.


In the meantime, good friends, we waved goodbye to are

Left standing still on shrinking away hills, their waving fingers seeming

Many speeding miles away. So why does it even matter

To me? I'm just trying to make something less sad


Out of it all before I lose my way completely  

In the years ahead. The shadows will cover up everything. They'll

Cover us unless I give it a little help, but

That doesn't mean anyone needs to be forgiven. Be you


And I'll be me. I'm still having fun with or

Without much grace to go on, but I'm goofing like Greta Garbo. Let's

Go for a spin I should have said in a

Much louder voice, maybe this thought will return me to your smile. 

O Come On, Listen

by Darryl Price


We get on our generation horses and go, man, go

because we don't know any better, but we do it. It's

very much a manufactured sudden and miraculous parade in the making

because we don't want to bore ourselves to death, okay?

So what? Join the crowds upon crowds of carefully constructed


crushed hedges if you want, it doesn't matter to me.

The only thing that matters is all of us right

here and now and you don't have to sign up

for anything to be an honest witness to the sun's  

rays today. If rain comes you might have another slim


opportunity to make up your once in a lifetime song to nature,

aren't you lucky? Go tell it on the mountain or

better yet tell it to the mountains. You never know

who might be listening down among the wildness of the

hungry for love bursting bluebells. Come on, show me, shout to


us, this way out of the grave. Well alright, at

least you had an almost genuine smile upon your face

for most of the ticking time. More than a lot

do. Tears and wishes aren't just for children to hold

up to the inevitable sky like colored balloons. The shadows


won't get their dirty drop on us, we're still awake

in our magnetic dreams and surely likely to get home

somewhat together if we try. That's as much a pure way of being

born as any religion's got going and a lot more

real to the bone. You choose sticks, I'll choose stories.