The Beatle Suite:7 Beatle Inspired Poems

I took 7  Beatle Song Titles and Made 7 Darryl Poems Out of Them

"Some musicians heal ethnic groups. Some musicians heal nations. The Beatles healed an entire planet."--Joe Queenan

"There was adventure,knowingness,love,and abundant charm.From any angle,they are the perfect pop group."--Bob Stanley

 

Rain

 

becomes anything you'd like—war, famine, disease,

even intoxicating love before it all

dissolves right before your disbelieving eyes. It

quickly walks away into a delicious great

nothingness and doesn't look back at you. You're left

 

with whatever repairs your mind can see fit to

make to the see-through air. You can point to certain

surprisingly fast trees and flowers as your heart's

missing proof, but this soggy map doesn't quite seal

the abandoned hole in your being when she's not

 

around. Nothing does. Nothing ever will again

until a gifted surfacing occurs in the

unmistakable condition like a wild thing

suddenly in flight. Only then will you uncurl

and accept the atmospheric smell of her hair.

 

 

We Can Work It Out

 

if we could only try to. There's no hidden

catch, except the happy one caught on our

 

remaining breaths. Except the actual

one that only lifts the lily latch at

your handwritten touch, your recognized, and

ridiculously soft request. That has

awaited you in the sought for moment

 

your whole life through. Do you even hear me?

The finest hour is not light-years away,

 

but within our own circular range like

a horse rhymes with forever wheeling birds.

Like the obliging tempting buzz of stars

infiltrates through a painted afternoon--

like a box of love letters! O third wave!  

 

 

Strawberry Fields

 

is a real place where real children

put their real fingers through the real

iron gate trying to feel out if

there's something different. Something

found. Something wanted. A something

better, big enough to matter

more than the real loneliness of

being alone. Something noisy.

 

That always makes the world sit up

and listen. They like bombs, don't they?

Bombs get them. They don't always pay

attention to smiles or groans or

jumps. They like newspapers, folding

chairs, but not holding hands. They will

prefer silent cars. Their big shoes

belonging in boxes in closets.

 

Their shirts all like beautifully built

ships. This place is not yet a room

with a fireplace, but it's a ghost

factory. It uses children

to make them so ethereal. If

you can hear me, please come and find

us. I want to go home with you

right now. Right away, if you please.

 

 

If I Fell

 

over the hillside of myself would you replant

the radiant clouds on either side of the sky

to catch or watch me? You could do this, but it would

certainly require an oceanic kind of

sacrifice on your part either way. I can't say

 

what this new horizon eventually would

become exactly because it would belong to

your heart alone. Your naming it would give it the

raw  power to divide and conquer. Someone else

could always perform this same kind of nakedly viewed

magic but the result would be a different

 

day altogether. That's what I'm asking you for.

Will you do the deed only you can make happen

for me? That's the question every person needs an

answer for to choose a side in life. Of course you

have the militants who say you only need a

 

small mirror to shave in. I think this is madness.

And others think you need everybody with you

stuffed into a phone booth to feel anything at

all like love. I want what spring does, everything to

come fully alive, to feel you put your hands on

my face. To flow and to hum. Remembering what it is to speak.

 

 

Because

 

this one little effort was made here just

for you to read and no one else, you are

felt to be becoming the new perfect  

morning. All a picture could ever want.

Enough light and shade to stage out your own played

garden of roses on the sides of your pretend

 

house like clumps of burning lamps buried in

the attractive breasts of the earth like the

best biological facts around. Does

it have to be more profound than that? Here

are a few more wise flowers for the most

obvious course of these human events:

 

because I heard the paltry voices as

a child and figured I might as well wait,

because this is just one way of looking

behind a closed door, because you and I

are in way over our heads like kept barn

animals, because occasionally

 

there is another way in, because I am

dragging my tail in the mud,  only a

few pages ago we were tender and

funny together, because we looked at

one another and agreed to accept

desire as a good thing, and you laughed so hard at heaven.

 

 

Things We Said Today

 

will have to do for tomorrow as well as the now. We don't

really know what worlds we'll take with us on our next amazing

journey. Or what words will still have strength enough left in them to

walk to work and back each day with us. The power is half chewed up from

where I'm sitting. It's a warehouse full of souls in jars and well

nobody seems to be watching the stacks, if you know what I

 

mean. So the words keep us moving along the belt. One day I won't be

able to arrange a time and place for our meeting like this.

It won't matter. But the words will pass on my spirit. Hello

blood vessels. Hello, hello dizzying lanes of traffic. Hello floating dust from

cameras. Hello January chains on my heart. Hello

again every step we took toward peace. Hello to my room.

 

Hello this is your pocket poet speaking. I had a sensation

of things as they are-- a very pleasant surprise, not nearly

as heartbreaking as I thought. Goodbye father. Good night Mother.

That's the moon I like, soaked in bat signals. On top of that I was

such a small frightened god, these are the facts now, I am nothing so clear.

A moth. Look closely, I am left feeling funny all over. Another close call.

 

 

For No One

 

There are restless and various winds coming

alive today I think in all the

self-deceiving windows of silence but one.

Like flaming squirrels they live in the

cemetery gutters and jump through

all the cracks in the known to be fallen down

 

worlds, chattering incessantly on

about nothing and everything. They

live for philosophical chaos because they are so

eternally young and curious

and love to snack on our houses and garbage

files of old ragged flags flown up and down

 

these empty streets like wheatfields. They eat this raunchy

stuff constantly. But that's just the one

beginning, the start of a feeling I'm having to attend to.

Is it about you? I don't know. The

rest is less observation, more gut

stomping ache. For instance right now I

 

take a very deep breath, let it out, the world's

a brown paper bag with a hole in its soggy

bottom, but that is not all it is,

because you're in it, too, somewhere, I'm

guessing. You should toss me a warm smile once in a while

unless things get too quickly boring.