The Beast Remembers Its Broken Promise

by Darryl Price


It's a good thing—because

Of the way that feeling

Made her even more beautiful.

You shouldn't doubt such a

Feeling. It's a good thing—

Because frankly you have


Been informed. When Beauty

Loses her way, even

The tiniest bird will

No longer eat out of

The cupped palms of a Saint

Of the sacred forests.


When Beauty loses her

Way, all the world is sand

And snakes. It's a good thing—

Because she will also

Put her fingers on your

Neck and massage your dreams


Into reality.

She will tilt your skull to

The stars without letting

You forget the ground. It's

A good thing—because she

Represents both and

Knows you must learn to navigate

With honor. It's a good

Thing—because without her

Skin to kiss you'd become

Fiery again, spewing

Your anger like lava


All over the plants and

Animals. It's no use

Denying it. Without

Her smile no sun would dare

To brighten the hours and

Days. Dirt would be our tent.   

Bonus poems:

Yours Truly by Darryl Price


This is the sound I make. I don't know what I'm doing other than being. You can shut the door if you like. I'm making my art out of something that already feels done. It's not always sad to me. I don't

want you to be sad. It's more like taking a picture of the impossible ocean. It's useless. Really it doesn't change anything. Facts may be true but they don't necessarily tell the truth. I wish I had something

interesting to say to you just for fun, but you've heard it all before—we all have. Why take another familiar seat in the shadow audience? You're on the other side of the story here from someone else's

foreign perspective. I don't want you to stumble around quietly in the dark.  There's only one reason to settle for things the way they are. Either you want to be free there or you don't feel it. I don't like

dividing things up into opposing camps. It's just another way to lie to yourself. I don't envy people their spectacular speeding lives. But I wouldn't wish mine upon anyone. Not that it's so bad. It's nice enough,

but I still want to see if you can imagine an action that would make you genuinely happy all the time. If you want to go out and dance you don't need my permission to let go. If you want to be a kind person

no one is stopping you. We don't have that luxury, nor do we need it, nor do we want it. You're the forgiver or else there is no forgiveness. You've got the power within you now. I can't say what your

actions will bring to the table, even if they are done with a lot of deep love. You can't think in terms of rainbow colored physics. It's too cold when you can't touch another human being. That's all I know. We

all want to get somewhere badly, but we are somewhere all the time. Everywhere is somewhere real. You are here. In the garden. At the gate. Home is a bigger concept than you remember in your absent

daydreams. Welcome. I've thought of all the big questions. But I don't want to die in a philosophical hell just because I wouldn't let go of the memory argument. It's stupid. What isn't stupid to me is making a

kind of music as you go. That's the best I can say it. So, I say it. That's my choice. I like it. I really do. And I seem to care about you for some reason. That's why I make this thing for you. To cheer you up and

down. Making a funny face. Tipping my hat. Walking away. Walking away. Turning around. Grinning a grin. Waving a wave. It's not much, but it's not meant to end. It's meant to return hello with a smile.     

Green Eyes by Darryl Price


The road is bigger than a white whale. We

started out with such pure confidence. The

sparkling stars looked like flags waved by unseen

hands. We were close enough to touch fingers.

That's what made me feel something so deep. It


wasn't the shocking amount of noticed

space behind the burning moon. It was you

being near enough to unwrap that ache

over and over. Then of course you chose

to suddenly run down into the thick


stinging brush without me to visit the

rising fireflies or the water lilies

or the blue flowers that bloomed there like rugs

forever. I don't blame you. They were so

plentiful and beautiful enough to


make even a young man's mind sigh without

knowing it, but so were you. That's the truth.

There are other truths not so simple, some

more violent. When you returned to the

open road years later I'm told your sad


uneven stinking hair was a wild mess

and your simple dress had been replaced by

knee-high boots and a wrap-around shawl. The

lonely roses in its tattered pattern

were all the faded same, full of stitched holes.


Maybe that says something about life, well

maybe it doesn't. But here I am still

wandering around the journey, but much

without the wild look once seeping into  

my own wide green eyes. By the way, the road


never once taught me how to pronounce its

true name. I was hoping I could save you,

bargain the name for your release, something

ridiculous like that. All I know now

is that it appears to have no real end.


I myself have seen the end of many

fair things. Good men have come and gone. While great

eternal songs have fizzled out like the

end of a favorite candle inside  

a battered heart. That's as close as we got.  dp