by Darryl Price
Victory is death. Rock stardom is death. Life is murder.
Love's still beaded longer than any row of stars. You
can't stop death from turning to face you, but its
not exactly expecting your poem's referral either. In other words
stop worrying about the facts. The birds are amazing. The
trees are amazing. The sky is the best kite in
the world. Frogs and bats are just as plentiful and
colorful as shells. Leaves always say the darndest things.Death
is a bridge, but all bridges lead somewhere. You can
call a bridge a wall if you want to, but
that only makes it harder to pass over. Love eats
death. Love keeps growing from nothing to something without losing
its balance. Love's awake even when all else is asleep.
You can't imagine love, love imagines you. Death can't dance
the way love can. It can stomp. It's a good
stomper. But only love can turn you into you, all
the way. Love never forgives you because you are never
forgotten. Death is a beetle good at what it does,
it rolls up the shit and drives it away. So
what if it always comes back for more? Love smiles
more often. And any way it's not a contest. Death
hurts because it has no feeling. There's nothing there. You
and I are here. My glow for you is alive
and well. That's all there is to say. That's all
there is to do, to be. Our friend's long gone,
without us, neither will our hearts leave him to cease.
by Darryl Price
We are the people who are never coming back. I
would be okay with that, except for you. That's always
been my main feeling. The world can do without me,
but not you. That would be unthinkable. Something's always trying
to rewrite itself and stay in the same merry moment.
At the last second not many are letting go of
their straw. You were chosen, at least by me, to
be the one who should be saved. How this is
supposed to happen, I don't rightly know. I can't worry
about that darkened path through so many thickening crowded dreams
now. It's hard enough just to see the shapes of
things to come or let go of the muted hour,
but I know the ocean green would never be the
equal to its own sunlight again, no rare bird would
want to soar to that tree of missing cloud, because
no freedom would ever feel as good as coming down
into your palm like a perfectly sewn nest on a
very high branch protected by an ancient warrior mountain. We
will be marked by markers, if we're lucky, but you
should always be being drawn from new pure stone by
sure hands adept at making beautiful sense of the perfected
lines of both leaf and flower where they grow best.
I was passing by a graveyard when that first line came to me. It was a beautiful day in every way--a day you couldn't take your eyes off of if you wanted to. I was driving down the highway thinking in spite of it all--all the sorrows,all the war,the hunger,the misunderstandings--the world presents us with an unbelievable place to lay down. Then I thought how could we ever get along without those we love being in the world with us? The world only went on singing its incredible song, as lovely and as moving as anything ever could be, to me through the air, the sun and the road.
All rights reserved.
With so much sure sadness seeping into our souls it's sometimes hard to believe we can still turn the cosmic wheels at any good rate of speed,but of course it's feeding off our being, not off our feeling, for that we have each other--for comfort,for friendship, for brotherly and sisterly love.Sometimes I just don't care who knows it. Things need to be said by poets and poets say them.