To a Bright Pair of Green Eyes

 

The sad march goes ever on. It stretches endlessly over an eternity

of painful hills, as unnatural as lumps under the skin, into

the deserted broken down streets, the forgotten unprotected alleyways, always adding more

and more lost children to its sickening sticky mess of daily strife. Every now

and then you can see a pair of bright eyes staring

out of the rolling emptiness, like chipped away stars, but they're soon

covered up with more dirt and toxic debris. The sad march goes

 

on. If only I could forget you. What's the point? It will

never let go of them again. Their tiny fingers will never

grasp anything happy, and you think this is okay because they

don't look like you? They are not even wearing anything like

shoes you can easily identify as being somewhat in the civilized

category. They are little more than a foaming pack of muddied

wolves at your back door. They will sink their stinking teeth into anything not nailed

 

down. It's your duty to resist them, and it's my duty

to resist you. The sad march goes on. They are the

first ones to fall, as you ride over any leaf stupid

enough to grow in your smashing about way. It doesn't have to

be couched in such a pretty lie either. The sad march goes on.

It doesn't have to be said, but it might as well

be-- because we are trying to build something out of hope, lost and found,

 

here. For you all time has stopped at your front doorstep. For

you all time is in its proper place, hanging on a wall,

sitting in a drawer, to be used only to cash in someone

else's future for another cheap deposit on your ever-present situation in

the fabulous golden gardens. For you all time is yours to

rob repeatedly. The sad march goes on. But my concern is

not with you. It is with them. There must be some

 

way to free them from your traditional treacherous trap. That's what I'm

looking for. The right words. The right inflection of the meaning.

A sign. Don't worry. We'll find it. Meanwhile the sad march

continues to be their very bad philosophy. It's a way that

always causes more harm than good, but the pay is pretty

fine for a government job. All you must do is let

them replace your eyes with something less observant and more obedient.

 

The sad march goes on. It's killed better poets than me.

Poems have disappeared into shadow over night. It does no good

to pretend. The sad march goes on. They will stoop to

the ground and beyond just to deny your existence, if it

gets in the way of counting the next batch of foreign money.

So, what? Tell your brain to stop its crying. We've got

something for free that they are always trying to get, but

 

that can't be purchased. Step yourself into the light, brother. Remember

what makes you glad, sister. The sad march goes on. It

doesn't get any easier, but neither does it get less important.

The sad march goes on. Do what you can. Do what

you must. Be what you like. That's what they can't figure

out. It makes no sense. They are baffled, by the softly singing branches

of the poem. Their lust sees only flowers. We see endless sky. 

Bonus poem:

       Here in the Poisoned World

 

it's always the age of

the coward. Here in the

poisoned mind the mourning

of a young President

is our popular sin,

 

our nostalgia. Here

in the poisoned winds the

toxic feelings of loss

become grand illusion,

our best card trick. Here in

the poisoned world we fly

 

our flags at half-mast now

before thinking of why.

Here in the poisoned mind

we elect a king in

the sky before a man

in the street. Here in the

 

poisoned winds we pretend

not to notice the stench

coming from the ovens.

In the poisoned world, we

accept marching orders

with smart salutes and no

 

back talk, no poetry.

Inside the poisoned mind

we reason with dueling

televisions. In the

choking winds, we cough with

our hands in the air. Here

 

in the poisoned world, we

must sit on our dreams and

never need to share them.

The poisoned mind's afraid

to be alone.Poisoned

birds sing without a sound.   

The Small Hours by Darryl Price

 

I have no idea

How to give you

What you need, how

To hold you so

That you won't ever

Feel alone again, you

Won't break. I have

No idea how the

 

Small hours add up

To so much sadness.

I have no idea

How to always remember

These days. No idea

If you're still alive

In the molten part

Of your soul. I've

 

Seen the empty eyes

Of the thoroughly corrupted

Staring my way. They

Want everything they want.

I'll take whatever they

Don't need. Still I've

No idea if your

Interest in seeing right

 

Goes on unabated or

Has failed, is lost.

I have no idea

Because I have said

My poems without you.

I have no choice

But to carry on

Alone. Here's to all

 

The lonely people. I

Have no idea if

A difference has been

Made that makes a

Difference against the dark

Lord's commitment to turning

Everything good upside down,

But I'll be there.  dp