This Thing
by Darryl Price
I'm sure someone somewhere must have
felt something like it before. I
mean I've never been able to
have this kind of deep longing as
if you might want to forget everything
you know. I always
figured that funny stuff only
happened to folks in a foreign
film. Not to some guy walking down
the road looking for nothing and
no one. What's the point? But to feel
like you are unable to breathe
without sputtering a bunch of
squeaky bouquets of utter contemptible
nonsense! I want no
part of it. Can't you possibly
read someone else's letters and
toss mine kindly back in the sun?
Someone I'm sure out there would be
more than glad to have that picture
in his head of you sitting on
a porch swing cooling your feet in
the pool of the summer winds like
a full sailed boat on its magic
way to a perfect dusk. Not me.
I want to continue getting
as far away from you as humanly
possible. But here we
are stuck in the brambles on all
sides. Me with my pockets full of
words like seashells. You with your mouth
full of irregular purpose.
Bonus poem:
Pleasures
The sun, or whatever it is,
is falling closer. I don't think
that it's going away any
time soon. But here I am a man
still seeking your face on every
leaf. Like a forest of elegant
bulbs that makes its way better;
doesn't make it blow away. I
don't believe in being forbidden
to laugh or to cry. That's my
problem. There's plenty I don't understand,
but it doesn't stop me
from feeling everything on and
on until the end. The sun, or
whatever is shining, seems to
be debating what makes a dream
and what is awakening, but
my question is for you--will you
still be love's message to us when
tomorrow is the only day
left on earth? The sunshine, or the
inevitable squinting sky,
shifts its own pleasures like a
sleeping lion sometimes, but I
and I must allow for the shadows
of our workhorse atoms to
move mountains and swing the maid back
onto her silver saddle before
listing over into another
starry despair. We've a
purpose after all in the grand
clash of the majestic kitchens.
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Author's Note
I feel like this is one of those pure poems. It says what it says and it doesn't try to be something it's not. This makes me very happy of course because as a poet I want to get rid of as much bullshit as possible and get to the heart of the matter. This is a love poem. It is a heart. My heart. I love you is what it means wherever you are, whoever you are.
Other stories by Darryl Price
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I love this, it encapsulates every god forsaken thing in my heart right now.
Usually I find your weakest point is in your line breaks, but not in this one though. I love this.
"Me with my pockets full of
words like seashells. You with your mouth
full of irregular purpose."
What a strong closing. Enjoyed the piem, DP.
"But to feel
like you are unable to breathe
without sputtering a bunch of
squeaky bouquets of utter contemptible
nonsense! I want no
part of it."
I like the sentiment of this whole piece.
My only complaint is Sam Rosen pinched the first sentence of his comment from my brain. The last one, too. *
Oh boy. Something's going on.... Hmmm.
Strong poem. I love knowing who's speaking and who's being spoken too.
I meant spoken "to."
*
Powerful, with a great arc, and just a VERY fine finish! Wow.
Irregular purpose is the only thing I know, damn it.
"But here we
are stuck in the brambles on all
sides. Me with my pockets full of
words like seashells. You with your mouth
full of irregular purpose."
So great, Darryl! Fine work.
*
Irregular purpose *
'Me with my pockets full of
words like seashells. You with your mouth
full of irregular purpose.'
Excellent. And
'But here we
are stuck in the brambles on all
sides.'
so well observed, too often true.
Great poem, Darryl.
Thank you, one and all!
Man can you write a love poem or what. I don't know. I haven't seen too many poems that can carry this whole love thing through. Good job.