The Young Hate the Old

 

 

The old hate the young.

Robe exposed monks do not

Hate mosquitoes. It is one. It is one hand. It is one.

Mountains don't hate sky.

 

The rich hate the poor.

The poor hate the rich.

The parade of scholars hate the

Uneducated

 

Workers who despise

The Learned.  The wise do

Not hate anyone 

Dead or alive for

 

Any reason whatsoever.  Bees

For instance do not

Hate hungry birds diving with their stone sharpened beaks pointed at their fuzzy little backs.

Gasping for quick air butterflies do not

 

Hate the end of summer's nectoring stations and its intoxicating perfume of almost rotting flowers.

They love the hollow remembrance of those young flowers as much as ever, it's true,

But not like in a made for TV

Shakespeare kind of CinemaScope film way.  More like

 

In a happy, happy dream sequence way,

Where all the interesting and charming characters

Come to a much greater life understanding together, or like an unexpected guest with

A French horn blowing into the rolling credit background as you walk away with nothing in your hands.

 

 

 

 

Bonus:

 

 

Seashell

 

Here it comes then, that strange familiar feeling. There is more

Of something friendly inside of everything else it seems. Who knows  

what might just as instantly be made into a new feeling, a particular warmth

come over them within the same spot of stance as you there? Well

perhaps that is too much to be asking the audience for right now.

There is nothing left of the old life but something

crunched out of a cardboard box and left on the window 

to begin to fade over time. Still there is something that speaks

of community, I can't understand that I know as an

understanding between us and late summertime. Perhaps another mock language other than mine here

 

would have given you a much clearer picture. You're the one

who picked up the poem so it must have been

meant for you all along. Hello. Is that too simple a puritan phrase to utter now?

We're nowhere near goodbye,not yet, not until you drop the last

point that contracts me back into another sand grain of its

own make and model. We'll have to eventually make sense out of the

present facts we make together. We have finally met. I can't say

I'm not glad, but I wish it were in an

area where we could at least look into each other's

living eyes and see some plain truth staring back from in there. Perhaps we are. Who am I to say

 

how the old world works on any new made up level? Who's to say

that eyes made out of words are not the better for it?

All I know is the further I get into these lines the more

I know you were meant to meet me here, and

so here we are. I have absolutely nothing fabulous to tell

you, but I do seem to be humming something amazing

whenever you are nearby. Even now I can't say that's a

very good song to hear. You resonate within me from right where you

are and from right where you have found me. I don't

want to know how this magic works. You can slice

 

and label all the mystical loveliness you want out of this world but it still

won't answer the ringing bell's ultimate question. There's a hillside.

Can we go and sit somewhere and watch nothing but

the color blue turn into a circus of balancing stars together?

I like the breeze. Is that part of your being

here, too? It's so nice. I wish I could always stay

with you like this, alone, free, away, sharing everything and

nothing without meaning to. But the ground says it's now about time

to go, so here's that goodbye I promised you. Here's to a certain

light made more vivid by our coming into contact with just one another just this one incredible time.

 

Darryl Price      December 01, 2012

Turn Around, Leave the Parade to the Experts

by Darryl Price