by Darryl Price
Fun and All
It's true even if in that one moment there's
A freedom loving butterfly flying
Its own spiraling kite of dance
Like footprints across a flower field
Map and the next only a dull bird
Sitting on a sun wrecked drain pipe. Oh
It's true as you turn your back on the whole
Crowd of us. And it's true while you practice hitting
A pimpled ball into a tiny cupped hole
Better than anyone else in the office. It's true
Even if I suddenly become only
The dust of your poet pal, Darryl
Price. It's true when they spike your news with
Reel poisons between the sound bites. It's
True even as they pronounce that rock
Is finished and dead. It's not. Art survives in us and with us all the time.
Our daily lives. Someone starts tapping the sad frozen floor with
Their shoes. Someone else makes a funny looking face out of a bunch of
Old newspaper clippings and lost feathers and spit right on the spot.
Someone then invents a new species of animal
Out of a jumble of office supplies
And it all works beautifully. It makes perfect sense too.Life can
Be a moment of silliness too. And the silly can make the
Pain subside to the background a little or a lot. Or maybe someone decides to
Break the stupidest rules and gives a big old hug where a
Hug has been long overdue, and needed the most. Well.Knock me down.
It's true even as the poem fails to light.
Places Are Being Spoken Of
In exploding, spitting leaves this time of year. Another
Language that like every other tongue argues for
More existence please with lots of everything
In small regular doses--sun and wind and
Rain and room to throw one's full arms
Around each new day, but a deliberate
Emerald will green from within. Greed gets
You acquisitioned next to the wall. Someone
Is bound to have a pair of cruel
Scissors in their back pocket sooner or later with your name
On it. Is this what's happened to
Me then? I exploded over the alotted time with
A beard twined of dozens of wild blue flowers and
Swept the local moths into a volcanic
Disappearance of dust-like proportions which choked apart
Any chance of making new friends with
The surrounding scenery? Too bad. I couldn't
Help filling my legs up with all
That freshly boiled pleasure and carrying it back
To the hive of my purest dreams
For later offering to the Muse herself,
An organic moisturizer she might easily dab
On between gigs as a silvery pulsating
Star or the mature breasts of the
Moon goddess. Let us celebrate moments like
These that conquer us so elegantly. Why
Let the circles close in all around
Us when we are made of the same
Stuff that keeps strumming in the
Eternal one's palmed ear canals as she dreams anyhow?
All rights reserved.
Rereading this piece I'm glad to see I was in the right state of mind to create it and not let it fall over to despair.
The Most Beautiful Truth,If the World's Still Turning, and Fun and All were all picked up for publication by Characteri.com.
"Places Are Spoken Of" was picked up for publication at The Camel Saloon.