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The Melody


by Darryl Price


 

They have their own homes. Their babies. The world 

is big enough to have more layers than 

you can imagine. The light will show you. 

But it can't do anything for you. You 

are the mad scientist who controls your 

robot feet. You are the artist who puts 

the brush into the wet paint and makes the 

invisible visible. You are the 

gardener who sees the bent sunflower 

towering over the countryside. It's 

all just sweetness, but


maybe not your own 

current turn at the table. No need to 

get mad. There's poetry in waiting, so 

many things to become aware of, so 

many interesting faces to find. 

They have their own names. Their names have stories. 

They are not blank. I mean it doesn't mean 

they are enemies of your state of you.  

A friend is a friend wherever you know 

them. We all watch the stars. We all burn with 

the sun. The oceans are sloshing


on each 

shore. They have their own towns. Their cities. It's 

an old tomahawk legend, but it works 

like a glittering dragon in the sky. 

Even though you may not speak the language 

you understand the feeling. The smile. The 

cry. The laugh. The weeping, the weeping and 

the sorrow for those who can no longer 

do these things with us. You may not think this 

is a love poem for you, but it is. 

You may not think this love is enough, but 

it is


all I've got. When you are cold, let 

me warm you in the places they don't know. 

This is no secret, but it doesn't have 

to be hidden either to be said and 

meant. They have their own highs, their lows. The days 

are not for us to count. Here in this life 

you and I are still able to huddle 

together. Walk together. Distance is 

not such a long time. But misunderstand-

ing is. Not trusting another is. I 

wish we didn't have to go it


alone. 

It seems like such a waste. When we could be 

holding clouds in our hands. They have their own 

clothes. Their hats for special occasions.  Their 

favorite shoes. Old companions. But 

the train comes. It comes right up to your face, 

snorting, boiling and singing its new formed

generation song. You might recognize 

the melody as something you've heard said

somewhere before. If you do it's your time 

to go. Good luck. Good-


bye. Don't lose me. Don't ever lose us. Stand 

by. There is more. From me to you. There is 

this. Always this. Remember. I don't know 

how long it means to go on from here. And 

perhaps other hands are meant to better 

bring it to you. For as long as you will 

receive it. Please. Pass it on. That's the much  

that we can do for each other. I'm all 

for any kind that works. Seems the body 

has its seasons, but to me I see this 

as a


clear bright window through which we are 

able to watch another dimension 

of the garden—one where other busy 

beings are being just as playful. I 

don't know if they can see us, if they are 

aware of us, but the here of us seems 

to also belong to them, to there. This 

is no Shakespeare's tragedy-it's a time-

less funky miracle. And I'm the more 

to be ever glad for it. That's all. It 

doesn't erase the pain entirely. No.


Nothing will. Let our songs be heard today. 

Let our voices carry on right now. Let 

bells be merry when they can for every 

living thing. For mercy. They have their own 

reasons. Their signs. But the road itself is 

neither good nor bad. It comes. It goes. Who 

is to say where the dream edges its way 

into the life and where the life feels its 

way into the dream? Again, this is just 

a painting. But so is a white seabird 

floating


against all the colors of blue. 

I can say it takes me away. And I'm 

so thankful, despite mistakes, the build up, 

inevitable wrong of disasters, 

the lost colliding chances to explain 

my strange poet's behavior to someone, 

anyone. Now go on your way. We've done 

what we could. I'm sure that other poet 

you've got waiting in the wings can't wait for 

his chance to come on.  Oh, yes, I've seen the 

polished feet below


the curtains, sticking 
out like curved knives, all smiles and shaven hopes. 
That's just not my style. See, I told you this 
was another sickening love poem. 
It certainly smells like one. Let the good 
times roll. My words now are falling apart. 
They are nothing more than bits and pieces. 
Like what's left over after a recent 
car crash. It still doesn't change things. Light through 
green leaves is lovelier by the minute.



Bonus poem:


I'm Sick by Darryl Price

 

Even though I'm sick of the love you

are for me in everything I do, think

or feel, I still want to kiss you

alone. There's no confusion in that statement. I

 

used to love to get wasted, but you

were only a poem. Now you are whatever

you want to be, a cloud, a rain

drop, a wind for a moment, a passerby

 

in a blue dress. What am I supposed

to do? I did what I said I

would do. You disappeared into all things surrounding

my lake of the world. It seems unfair.

 

I'm sick of the love I must always

carry for you. If Shakespeare didn't say that

he should have. This is not disillusionment. I'm

just sick of the love that keeps me

 

alive. It won't let me stop writing poems.

I'm not allowed to get too disgusted with

running into the world's wall over and over.

Your love picks me up again and I'm

 

never going to be one of them. But

you're allowed because you can shape shift at

any time. I rise but rarely shine. That's

your job or at least your prerogative. I'm

sick with the love you mean to me.

You think I understand, but I feel lost

in your smile. I feel buried under your

laugh and I don't know if I can

 

cope. I am what I can be. But

this love has carried me so far away

from all the other drivers that the road

is nothing but something mute under my feet. 

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