by Darryl Price
are speaking clear enough through their open and
bleeding wounds for you to 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 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, 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
day. 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 stone. Is it any wonder the
lovely little starfish have 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.
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 the gold.
Photograph by Darryl Price
Well here we are 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 on my side
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 night. I guess it's really true what
They say, nothing matters. We get the perfect journey we're
On and nobody can change the common sense of that.
What's written on the passing pavement is coming off our
Pressing feet in sticky scribbles. These lifelines sometimes get tangled
With other folk's thirsty searching roots, and another younger story
Emerges and demands all our best time and topmost energy.
In the meantime, good friends we waved goodbye to are
Left standing still on shrinking 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 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, 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 make you smile.
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's
very much a 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,
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 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. 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.
All rights reserved.
I get so much flak for writing a poem like this--which is one of the main reasons I do it. I don't like being told what to write or not write about. I remember once my wife and I were out to dinner. I saw an old friend of mine and his wife. I introduced us and said, "This is Greg. He was my music writing partner." Greg blanched and said, "Hey, that was a long time ago."... " That doesn't make it any less true, does it?" I asked. Just because the plight of certain sea creatures has been played to death in the media doesn't mean we shouldn't give it any more attention or concern. Our terrible job of shepherding of the planet still hurts us all as much today.