Snow and snow and snow and snow and snow and snow and snow

by Darryl Price



A tough enough signal to read under the best of meteoric circumstances, this is one maybe I'll keep on thinking about.

I might be able to make something everlasting out


of this crazy price for love after all. I no longer mind the bruises. Life shambles forth and falls flatly

forward only sometimes. The cold light of day, it isn't so much a


fist inside your head any more. If anything it's the same

handicapped note you weren't missing when you weren't that


aware you were missing any musical heritage of birdsong at all. I

simply meant to deliver it a long long time ago now.


My horse was shot out from under me on the one and only available wooden

bridge home. I sure miss that horse. I've tried rolling the whole message over and


up again into one of those sparkling orbs and flicking it away, or bowling it with real muster 

among the pine like stars like a hazy memory on fire. I guess


I've messed up something pretty good now, that's for quite sure, but it wasn't

enough to change the nature of my own free floating clouds for you all to see. I tried


to bow low enough then open the cage door of my tricked out top hat, for instance,

but no misconceived dove dreamed of  its sudden freedom


in that emptying emerging space below. I can't believe

I had that much shit written down. Most of the words I know have come


back to me now one way or the other. Some drenched in mud,

some covered in fallen ash, but most just limping


silently back into my shirt pocket. I guess

you can't pretend to have made the mail delivery


if there's nobody home in a world of sad

constellations. I'm still walking towards that narrow escape hatch alone


at which time I'll hand over the bleeding letters I promised at

last and be somewhat free from the thought of you, but if I don't make it,


at least you'll know I tried. Everything else is moondust on the carpet.

Only the moon considers there's any other way to go home again.

Bonus poems:

Monkey Pause

by Darryl Price

We live upon a star. With a 
billion other stars, we are 
floating. There are mad coiled things with 
lots of poison teeth. There are sweet 
sad things with awful broken wings. 
We are all made up of tiny 

vibrating, speeding balls of light. 
We are birthday moons. And we are 
rumored mountains. We are postcard 
rivers and postcard clouds. We feed 
unseen roots and tributaries 
with the least flow of our silent 

thought. We take action and change the 
whole world. We are ill winds that huff 
and puff. We are spotlight sails. We 
are joyous noise makers. We screech 
to a blinding halt. We sing our 
stories together. We add our 

music to the picnic of life.
It can be a deafening, or 
soothing, downright mysterious 
thing to behold, but it's almost 
always human. Our own sweeping 
mistake. Our big blue star is a 

most beautiful, swirling bubble 
of hopes and fear, of war and peace. 
Ancient wisdoms and new young faced 
innovations. You and me. Me 
and you. We dance on a star. We 
trade places with a twist of the 

tied tongue. I used to not know why 
you had to go. Then it dawned on 
me; you are only in motion.
And that's about all there is to 
it. There's no senseless spree on love,
Monday's still one bad idea. 

Bonus poems

Why Kill the Moment With Holy Wine

by Darryl Price

I hope your sick dreams are also filled 
with the screams of dying trees. You don't 
want to grow beautiful cities, you
want to mine uninterrupted beauty 
and poison it with fear to make sad 
money pour out of the wounds. You don't 

have enough guns to stop our love. As 
long as one mountain exists, we grow 
without end. One tiny flower and 

your world is turned upside down and you'd 
better know it. We are the fools who 
are deemed unwise, but we imagine 

something better than your lies. You don't 
have enough bombs to wipe out our skies 
full of stars, within this lifetime or
any other. As long as the sun 
and moon provide even a glimpse of 
their simple glory, our care for this 

world will never slip away. You don't
have enough armies to stop our love
from happening all over again.    

Uh huh

by Darryl Price

"The spirit dance was unfolding."--John Lennon

And still is. Only some people 
will deny the very piece of 
heaven they are seeing because 
they don't like the other guy's own 
description of a sparrow. Sounds 
pretty petty, doesn't it? You 
don't know the half of it, brother. 

Uh huh. You don't need more drugs to 
produce wonder for you. It's a 
given thing. Home. But you get what 
you give, wonder and all. Within 
you like the ocean and without 
you like the ocean, just as George 
said. You belong there. Endless. You 

exist here. Born lost and born found. 
Human. That's our warning lock and 
our feeling key. Forever light 
and forever shadow. It's all 
cold in the one eye and warm out 
the other. Look. Breathe light of the 
candle sky. Eat the bread. Eat of 

the ringing earth. Begin. Again. 
Dream. Balance the river and sky. 
Against the sky. Upon the sky. 
Listening cloud and listening 
grass blade. Walk up the hill. Thank you. 
Run down the hill. Thank you. One hand 
holding one hand clapping. Thank you.       

Flowers In Her Room

by Darryl Price

You fold me. I know 
what that means. But I 
don't care. You folded 
me. You may never 
be back. But just in 

case you are. Flowers 
in your room. They burn 
like candles. They end 
with the light going 
out. It's not a wet 

metaphor. You fold 
me into a flat 
tiny square and slide 
me between two worn 
poetry chapbooks,
instead of two bright 
breasts. Let's not play games. 
You fold me like it's 
all the same. You fold 
me like a frozen 

lake. You fold under 
the shimmering moon. 
And all those sad stars 
hanging about. But
 I don't care. You fold
me; I may never 
be found unbroken
again. You fold me. 
Am I lost to your 
song? You fold me. I 

don't care. I am not 
hanging my head in 
a dark rain no one 
else can see. It's just 
a flower. Our love.
Ours. You fold me. Don't 
forget, open me. 
Like I open you.
And never get too
tired to hold me close.  

I'd Rather Write You That Kiss

by Darryl Price

that reminds you of our loss

of us. It is what it is.

I don't know if you meant  to

harm the world. I only know

I don't want to harm anything ever

anymore. Besides we've

already suffered life enough.


The parts blown out of our

hearts can never be retrieved.

But these holes aren't meant to be

our homes forever. There must

be a new place built where the

walls are trusted again to

protect us from ourselves when


we are feeling angry or

sad or acting stupid. Where

peace is structured into the

ribs like a firm enough handshake. Where

the floors are forgiving and

able to withstand a good

amount of wild dancing. Where you


and you can give each other

the space to grow and heal together

in this world. Where all

are treated fair and kindness

is always to be found in

one's singing voice. Thank you for

the grace of your acceptance.