The March to the Sorry Sea
by Darryl Price
goes on.It's like a sad season, isn't it? Sometimes I have to
wonder whatever happened
to us to make us forget how
we already know how to
sing as good as any larks? I have never wanted
to drown but I've fallen asleep
and found myself dangerously adrift in the sheets
closer to the always
walking away from us hungry waves a time or two.
I guess that's about all it takes. Oh
wake up. Wake up please my love.Remember yourself.
Here's what this is: me tapping
on the cold cold groundswell or else throwing wind around in a cage
simply to see if you are
still listening somewhere out
there for the sound of another
beating heart and if you
are then we are not ever to be so alone again, we are not,we have never been,if
we are here together. That's
all. Any more would just be cruel to the unborn dreamers among us.
Read into it what you
will. It's your freedoms we are
talking about here, not their's to come. I'm just
saying hello my fellow prisoner. How are you today?
The rest of the conversation
depends so much upon you wanting to listen in between the rubber talking masks.
Your own fingers or whatever else
you use to make sense of doing the walking up and the walk down on
this dreaming staircase we call life. We've been taken away
by absurdist thinkers,
dangerous activists. It's
the very arrogance of
their impunity that strengthens
a class system that harms
the poor and all animals.Wake up!A pillow is no substitute for the real thing into your waiting arms.
052610
What Would I say To You
Is this the place, where I finally
end up frozen in my tracks, walking alone with a found stick
and a dog,sporting
a cat hat, alone on
top of a hill, no longer
concerned with the wind's
icy fingers on my neck? I'm here
and yet I'm also at home everywhere.
I prefer the big rocks, you know,
the soft and green and thick
moss of summertime, the
great fluidity of
that enormous animal we love to see
we call the water,
soaking up the sun, the
burning maidens dancing
with little white clouds tied
around their fabulous bellies. Ah, who
could want this vision to ever
end, brothers,without starting
to weep?Yet there it
is all perfectly wrapped up
in an otherwise grey
chunk of missing road. Every step
or misstep I have taken now leading me
around in circles of sorrow has
finally dropped me off the grid's fingertips without you at hand.
Whatever rain there was a moment ago
has pulled itself back out of
the mist now like a reversed arrow. Perhaps these
angels they love to talk about so much
are only made out of the
things you cannot ever truly see.
Nobody's coming, not
for me, not even buzzards,
no wolves or snakes unless
they're already here
and I'm just what's left with
a few bones thrown in for
good measure. Did I make
this poem up or did
it make me into its private song?Oh well then perhaps
one more cup of cola
for the road. This letter was
never in my pocket
to begin with and shall
not be mailed to you.
Darryl Price 072706-060110
wonder whatever happened
to us to make us forget how
we already know how to
sing as good as any larks? I have never wanted
to drown but I've fallen asleep
and found myself dangerously adrift in the sheets
closer to the always
walking away from us hungry waves a time or two.
I guess that's about all it takes. Oh
wake up. Wake up please my love.Remember yourself.
Here's what this is: me tapping
on the cold cold groundswell or else throwing wind around in a cage
simply to see if you are
still listening somewhere out
there for the sound of another
beating heart and if you
are then we are not ever to be so alone again, we are not,we have never been,if
we are here together. That's
all. Any more would just be cruel to the unborn dreamers among us.
Read into it what you
will. It's your freedoms we are
talking about here, not their's to come. I'm just
saying hello my fellow prisoner. How are you today?
The rest of the conversation
depends so much upon you wanting to listen in between the rubber talking masks.
Your own fingers or whatever else
you use to make sense of doing the walking up and the walk down on
this dreaming staircase we call life. We've been taken away
by absurdist thinkers,
dangerous activists. It's
the very arrogance of
their impunity that strengthens
a class system that harms
the poor and all animals.Wake up!A pillow is no substitute for the real thing into your waiting arms.
052610
Voting Instructions
"No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted."--Aesop
"No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted."--Aesop
I'm for people.
I'm for mushrooms.
I'm against ants I think. Is that unkind?
Absolutely for sunflowers.
Against those snakes
who kill for shade.
For elephants.
Against hunting
for fun. I'm for
comic books and
against snobs who
think art is worth
more than any small kindness.
I'm for laughing
at the movies,
books, strawberries.
Against cheating
the oceans out
of their bounty by dragging nets.
I'm for coral
reefs, sharks even,
but against the
scientists who can
only believe in
what they can prove in a test tube,
philosophers who
love to argue
to the death.
I'm for loud music,
against bass
as the only
heard instrument.
I'm for wild trees
and plenty of
them! I'm against
houses being too
close together.
I'm for nectoring
monarchs who
could care less
about us human beings.
I'm for pictures
of my friends, not
files,living well
in your own small way.
I'm against the
definitions
of God. I'm for
a starry night.
I'm against smog
just so we can
make some big cash stash.
I'm for chewing
gum but I'm against
littering. I'm
for poetry,
against writing
to attack and
wound. I'm for a love
that defends all.
that forgives all,
and includes all.
The only reason
to go to
the stars is to
realize the
light extends down
through all our concepts
of why we
are here in the first place. Not worth
fighting over.
Darryl Price
What Would I say To You
Is this the place, where I finally
end up frozen in my tracks, walking alone with a found stick
and a dog,sporting
a cat hat, alone on
top of a hill, no longer
concerned with the wind's
icy fingers on my neck? I'm here
and yet I'm also at home everywhere.
I prefer the big rocks, you know,
the soft and green and thick
moss of summertime, the
great fluidity of
that enormous animal we love to see
we call the water,
soaking up the sun, the
burning maidens dancing
with little white clouds tied
around their fabulous bellies. Ah, who
could want this vision to ever
end, brothers,without starting
to weep?Yet there it
is all perfectly wrapped up
in an otherwise grey
chunk of missing road. Every step
or misstep I have taken now leading me
around in circles of sorrow has
finally dropped me off the grid's fingertips without you at hand.
Whatever rain there was a moment ago
has pulled itself back out of
the mist now like a reversed arrow. Perhaps these
angels they love to talk about so much
are only made out of the
things you cannot ever truly see.
Nobody's coming, not
for me, not even buzzards,
no wolves or snakes unless
they're already here
and I'm just what's left with
a few bones thrown in for
good measure. Did I make
this poem up or did
it make me into its private song?Oh well then perhaps
one more cup of cola
for the road. This letter was
never in my pocket
to begin with and shall
not be mailed to you.
Darryl Price 072706-060110
Wonderfully strange & evocative, Darryl :)
Oh Darryl absolutely brilliant beginning! starting like it had been going on silently somewhere else. This took me in and did not let go...
Loved it!! Def fave
Enjoyed this poem, DP. I like the mix here - absurdist thinkers, dangerous activists, another beating heart, fellow prisoners...
Thank you for these important reminders, Mr.D.
Lonely but free?
I've often thought of poetry as a kind of secret code for talking to others of like mind. John said the world is run by insane people. Certainly there's an argument to be made for it. But my point is as long as we have each other's presence in mind there's at least a bit of hope--of some kind. And I know how trite that sounds, but I don't care. We need to make the effort to take care of one another even when we ourselves are feeling lost and so alone.Writing a poem is a way,just one way, of taking care of you even when I'm not around you. Let me try one more time: they can burn everything to the ground both visible and invisible but a poem on the right day at the right hour can resurrect the sun.
this might sound weird, Darryl, but reading this poem i imagine myself as an oil covered sea animal in the Gulf saying these very words. Very well done!
I like this idea very much, Sara, and am tempted to put it into the poem somewhere. Although obviously it's already there.Thanks for that wonderful image.