The Sun Is Not

by Darryl Price

some polka dot wearing old lady flopping back and forth like a stranded fish on a cosmic wooden plank only to plop down
and die eventually. That's only
them daring you to
disbelieve in your own love, again.
Then they'll blame you(of course) for it.

You're not the only
personage on my mind right now
but you're always stuck right up there inside of 
its warmest projections. Now there's this
sweetest (barely audible) singing I hear coming

from the freshly fallen snow
I'm somehow made more aware of, 
slowly shifting onto the
minutes of this writ
as I chip away through

the ice walls with my bare hands. Hey I
thought I remembered something really
cool about the left
corner of your eyelid the other day
but now I can't

think exactly what that monumentally excellent thought 
was all about. Well I'd laugh
but there are no
more breaths for it 
on frozen tundra.  Sometimes

life feels like a
lost ball waiting in
the grass for the
next kicker to stroll
by. Oh but I

still feel those thin
raggedy winds--even crouching
down inside my crowded
room as I am--as they march
over the stacked and starched and

folded lands outside like
some grist of ghostly
tears.And I've somehow
misplaced all those collected
sentences I was saving

up just for you, and you're never returning. I get it.
I hope you'll
forgive me. They're probably
best left out there
to the elements anyway, buried

in plain sight,
dropped, unspoken, unwritten, slipped
off like a small
stack of bricabrac beads
from a reddish fraying line.

D.P.  12/27/09

The Sky Here's Full Stopped
under a blanket of
blue snow. That's my
reality. But even if
one of those thread-like
clouds throws its swallowed
light after you I
suppose I'd be happy.
I want your footsteps
illumined on the path.
And if one wild
wind might detach itself
from today's army to
gently brush back the
hair from your cheeks,
well, you know, I
think maybe what's left
of all the free
floating leaves in the
world could not mind.
D.P.    07/15/09

Looks Like the Sea is Always

thinking of doing something
else besides quietly sloshing
around but can't quite manage
it. And I can't find the proper
words I know so believe me for something

right now. Honestly the only
thing speaking directly
to me here is that softly
curled pink cloud already submerging
its dreamy shoulders

into the blue black depths of
coming night like a lazy
swimmer who only wants to
float around for awhile. I 
still wish I could close my eyes

and join her there but that would
be somehow false. So much true
beauty tortures a man into
believing things he cannot
see. And just like that everything

changes into whatever
this is. The cloud has become
a dark dolphin. What's left
of the sun goes gliding all
over the surface like cream.

D.P.       02/25/09

I Want This To Be (revised)

the most beautiful
thing you've ever seen.
But our world is not
run on poems unless

you count the moon's
cold black memory
as verse. I want this
to be what you were

waiting for without
knowing what you were
exactly counting
on. Like a solitary

garden path.
I want this to guide
you home again by
your own bright winds.I

do not wish this to
be just another
plan to get your attention.
I want

this to be the one truly loved
painting on your wall.
The kind of rain you
splash around in no

matter how wet you
get. The moment your
head trusts my neck to
be its pillow. Your

first choice of seats. I 
want this to build like
a dream and work like
a charm. I'm pretty

sure it's not going
to save us from anything
because it's
only me wanting

you to smile.But I
still want this to be
in your hands when you
go to bed this night.

D.P.    08/07/09

The Moon at Sunset

My anger's lit like
a hot wax candle dripping   
down my neck. My love
lies with a smile that
is nothing but sugar.
My anger is wearing a
great black costume that
seems more at home in
the darkest corners
of abandoned barns

than on any street I know of.
My love is pure joy
in your presence as
if angels dropped by
the house for drinks and
conversation. My
anger bites every
noise, happy or sad.
My love forgives the
punch in the heart you

bring for merely asking
the question. My
anger turns it on.
My love turns it down.
My anger runs. My
love sprints. My anger
points. But love holds on.
My anger rips the
pages on purpose.
Love tapes the picture back together

no matter the many
missing pieces.
My anger swims away
and sulks. My love
invites everyone
to the table. My
anger spills whatever
takes the longest
time to regather.
My love volunteers.

My anger thinks it's
funny. But love laughs
too. My anger calls
the universe by an
ugly name. My love
believes there's always
the chance.  My anger
squeezes the juice. While
love is like a whole
plate of spinning stars.

D.P.    09/12/09

Sometimes I forget

how strange the world is. I'm not so worried
about following your rules. I'm much more
interested in being real. I've never believed
in their definitions of beauty. Yet I've already 

seen many miraculous things on just

about every other surface. I figure it's some kind of minute
mojo being made into more cosmic patterns upon another wall of self 
somewhere. It's all made out of the same stuff any way.
But even that's not the whole truth. In 

order to get there we'd have to go everywhere

at once. And yet we do our dance! I don't have to
give you this poem any more than you have to
read it. The sun will burn out when the sun

will burn out. Until then you have to

continue to climb out of yourself 
into the open air so to speak. The story simply
unfolds around you a million times a second like
a pretty difficult puzzle but is it fun or can it be? 

And still we kill each other. That's

the really sad part. We don't even
know any other way. Oh sure there are many here
among us who refuse the fight but they end up dying any way. There's a point to all the sadness in these words but

you're crazy if you think it's up to me to tell
you what they mean. I'm not that voice but I hear
it too. It's coming out of every rock, every drop
of rain,every flower, every particle of air, every 

stitch of clothing, every cell of skin, every bead upon our

silly heads. We take it all way too seriously. Nothing's ever
going to stop the gate from closing in on us but we could
have a picnic among the rising stones right now and later
count as many stars as there are souls of beings.

d.p. 2009

The Horse-Shaped Hole

stands softly in moon-wash nibbling on tufts at

the top of sleeping

day. Instantly we are

deputized astronomers bearing silent
witness. No one knows
what true colors the
animal exhibits. None care.

Shaking his great shaggy
mane back and forth
he releases an army
of tiny bright things

that begins floating toward
that orb like a
thousand naked canoes. He
lifts a hoof and

the sky flushes itself
and sequined as any
dancer begins to fold
upon deeper and deeper

swirls. Wings flutter within
all the invisible trees
for miles around. Nothing
winks out. Instead

everything's neatly lit by
the mere fact of
this moment like a
candle in the clouds.

Darryl  06/19/09