The Sky Bent Over
by Darryl Price
and coughed its grey net over the candle
lit world outside. Birds of an arrow sprang
into thin air and disappeared over
the hills in a quick shortness of zoom-breath--
like a stiffened branch snapping . It's cold. There're
many things in this world colder. Living
arrows that do hit their mark more often
than not. You're not supposed to notice. The
buried fields will slowly eat the snow away.
Be patient. The moon will return with
her shovel of stars. And no one will be
the wiser. It all aches too much right now--
for me to be able to see straight inside
your hearts. You want snowmen to live? So
do I. Well I think your hands are meant to
capture other hands and warm them. That's the
true meaning of every season's cusp of
steaming liquids if you ask me. This year's
spiky sidewalks aren't even displaying in
spite of the brutal possibility
of something large and untamed in the wind's
swirling undercurrents. Our tests are different
now. We stand at the shore, together
and alone. There will be pretty rains
that'll surely break your heart with their simple
songs of missing. There will be clear blue
days to come too perfect to remember
for long. You'll be there. I don't know where I'll
be. It doesn't matter. These things will not
pass away nor run out on you. You'll see.
Bonus poems:
by Darryl Price
by Darryl Price
where we once stood and parted the raging waters
of whatever it was we had and received each
other's lovely landscapes are not forgotten. That's why in
spite of the so many dark outlaw brambles now
on fire with strange lost hours stretching across our
divers paths I have brought back this piece of
broke poem for you. I know you are no
longer standing there in the rain. It still belongs
with you more than me. What we found out
is what we created. You're always welcome. You are
not alone. That was the meaning then and now.
Somehow you think this means I'll never put my
hand on your waist again. That's not the plan. I
have tried, but there's nothing I can do. I
too have those crisscross memories, but great writing is
calling. Now there is that something saying my true
name like a deliberately chosen surprise. It was always
the knock at the door game. Wake up. Hold
to your heart for everything you want to see happen.
That's my message for you. Here. You and I
both know a simple secret. I got this thing for you.
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Author's Note
"Well we all shine on
Like the moon and the stars and the sun"--John Lennon
Reading nature is our most natural thing to do. We smell the air. We watch cloud patterns. We feel the rain. This gives us a kind of intuitive knowledge, but it doesn't save us from the fact of our existence. It only confirms that we are a part of all flinging things, no matter how big or small. That's why, to me, little friendly choices can mean so much in a world that continues to belch its own way through the universe. There are blasts of beauty as well as sorrow, and still people will look into each other's eyes and smile. That's the miracle we've all been waiting for--right there. Go ahead and take it, take your share.
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"the spiky sidewalks aren't displaying in
spite of the brutal possibility
of something large and untamed in the wind's
swirling undercurrents"
Good piece, DP. Enjoyed the read.
Wonderful imagery, and a great sadness, but also a great calm in this. *
"Be patient. The moon will return with / her shovel of stars."
Always greatness.
*
"It's cold. There're / many things in this world colder"
Unexpected, wonderful turn.*
I love the moon/stars line as well. Beautiful and sad. *