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The Young Hate the Old(revised)


by Darryl Price


 

 

The old hate the young.

Robe exposed monks do not

Hate mosquitoes. 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 quick hungry birds with their stone sharpened beaks.

Gasping butterflies do not

 

Hate the end of summer flowers.

They love the flowers as much as ever, it's true,

But not like in a made for TV

Shakespeare kind of CinemaScope movie.  More like

 

In a happy dream,

Where all the interesting and charming characters

Come to greater life, or like an unexpected guest with

A French horn blowing.

 

 

 

 

Bonus:

 

 

Shell

 

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

Of something inside of everything else it seems. Who knows  

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

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

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

There is nothing left of the old life but something

crunched out of cardboard and left on the window sill

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. Perhaps another mock language other than mine

 

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

who picked up the poem so it must have been

meant all along. Hello. Is that too simple a phrase?

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

point that contracts me back into another sand of its

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

present fact 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. Perhaps we are. Who am I to say

 

how the old world works on any new 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 line

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 say that's a

very good song. 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 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 stars together?

I like the breeze. Is that part of your being

here, too? It's 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. Here's to a certain

light made more vivid by coming into contact with one another.

 

Darryl Price      December 01, 2012




Turn Around, Leave the Parade


by Darryl Price



 

Some of us march forward all our lives. I like to step out

Of line. It's no big deal. I was never one for waiting around

For something nice to happen. You might not like this, but really it's

Not my concern. I don't know who you are and you certainly don't

 

Know me. These poems are just something I like to do besides trying

To blackmail the powers that be into leaving me alone. As far as

I can see they just aren't wired that way. Any movement away from

Their complicated conversations is a big plus for me. It's fun to splash

 

A bit of paint on a piece of paper no matter what current

Critics make of it. If they call it shit perhaps you've finally made

Something that isn't simply boring. Even that's not the only point worth pursuing

In the daily grind. The ones who march endlessly think they are going

 

To the gates of heaven, but they are already in hell. Life is

Meant to be awakened to constantly. It's not about where you are standing,

It's about not losing heart, which is pretty easy to do. I don't

Have any hard advice for you. That would be lending you my coat

 

That's out of proportion to your own body. It might keep the rain

Off momentarily but eventually it makes you look like an idiot who can't

Dress yourself properly. You don't need anybody's advice to know how you feel

About your own footprints. It's not always getting you to discover a different

 

Song than the one you are hearing, sometimes it's about thinking about the

Direction to that tune.  Guess some things are beautiful indeed, but I don't

Want to hear some poet describing them to me like I'm blinded by

The gaslight. The marchers like to stare straight ahead, but I don't think

 

The back of someone's head qualifies as any kind of proof that God

Cares if you make it. If there's any caring to be had perhaps

We'd better start the engine with something a little less esoteric than a

Celestial cup of foul smelling free green tea. The marchers are always disappearing

 

Up their own backsides and painting the cliffs white with their smeared ghosts.

It's more a sad letter than answered pathetic plea for love, more faded

Memory than museum worthy sunflowers, more washed up and wrecked boat rib than

Seashell. You want somebody to take you home, I don't. Being in the

 

Depths of this life I find all kinds of reasons to put the

Next word and the next down. Standing in line I'd only see something

Or someone trying to hide their broken springs. I'm not interested in being

Issued an official writer's card. This is what you get from the mess.

 

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