The Weirdo Melody Has a Meltdown of Its Own

by Darryl Price


They have their own homes to fill with bought and sold dreams. Their own babies to care for and feed. The world 

is big enough to have more layers than 

you can ever imagine. The lights will show you a way when you have turned too dark for your own good. 

But it can't do anything physical for you. Instead you 

are the mad scientist here who controls your own two 

robot feet. You are the talented artist here who puts 

the willing brush into the fresh wet paint and makes the 

invisible visible to us all. You are the patient 

gardener here who sees the bent sunflowers 

towering over the countryside and secretly smiles at the heavens. It's 

all just pure country sweetness, but

maybe not your own 

current turn at the laden table. No need to 

get mad. There's poetry in waiting just for you, so 

many things to become aware of, so 

many interesting faces to find and learn from. 

They have their own names. Their names have their own stories. 

They are not blanks by any means. I mean it doesn't mean 

they are not the enemies of your state of you. Watch out. But  

a friend is still a friend wherever you know 

them. We all watch for falling stars in our cups. We all burn with 

the sun constantly slapping our backs too often. The unknowable oceans are sloshing

on each other's 

shores without explanation. But they have their own conclusions for making towns work for everybody. Their cities. It's 

an old tomahawk-shaped legend at play, but it works for them 

like any glittering dragon crawling through the turned on sky. 

Even though you may not speak their brand of the language of love 

you understand the same feeling it gives. The smiles. The gasping happy 

cry. The sweeping laughter. The weeping, the weeping and 

the sorrow for those who can no longer 

do these good  things with us. You may not think this 

is a love poem for you, but it is. It always is.

You may not think this love is enough for you, but 

it is

all I've got. When you are cold, let 

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

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 instead of enjoy. Here in this life 

you and I are still able to huddle safely 

together in these hills of words. Walk together. Distance is 

not such a long time to go. But misunderstand-

ing is. Not trusting another is. I 

wish we didn't have to go it


It seems like such a waste. When we could be 

holding clouds in both our hands together. They have their own 

clothes. Their hats for special occasions.  Their 

favorite shoes. Old companions. But 

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

snorting, boiling and singing its newly formed

generational song. You might recognize 

this new lonesome melody as something you've heard said

somewhere else before in your own head. If you do it's your time 

to go. Good luck. Good-

bye. Don't lose a sense of me caring about you while over there. Don't ever lose any of us to a distant mountain ever again. Stand your ground. Stand 

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

this. There is that. Always this. Sometimes that. Remember. I don't know 

how long it means to go on from here. And also 

perhaps other hands are meant to better 

bring its meaning home to you. For as long as you will 

receive it, that is. But Please. Pass it on. That's the much  

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

for any kind of peace that works. Seems the body 

has its perfect seasons, but to me I see this 

as a

clear and bright window through which we are 

able to watch another unfolding dimension walk out 

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 the air with them, all the way to there. This 

is no Shakespeare tragedy-it's a time-

less funky miracle. And I'm the more 

to be ever glad for the seeing it for myself. Who do I thank? That's all. It 

doesn't erase the pain entirely. No.

Nothing will do that. Let your songs be heard on a light breeze today. 

Let our voices carry on singing right now. Let the little 

bells be merry when they can for every 

living thing. And for mercy. They have their own 

reasons. Their bright night 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 small painting I made for you while you weren't looking. But so is a white seabird 


against all the colors of blue in the world. 

I can say it truly takes me away. And I'm 

so thankful, despite mistakes, for the build up, even an

inevitable wrong of strange disasters to come, 

the lost colliding chances to explain 

my strange poet's behavior to someone new, or

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

what we could. I'm sure that other poet 

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

his or her chance to come on and show me up.  Oh, yes, I've seen the 

polished feet below

the curtains, sticking 
out like curving 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 on me. 
They are nothing more than bits and pieces of feelings. 
Like what's left over after a recent 
car crash. It still doesn't change things. That Light through those 
green leaves is getting lovelier by the minute.

Bonus poem:

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.