by Darryl Price
All these poets with their hands
Full of poems are driving
Me into the wheat fields like
A flock of crows. They offer
You a cigarette and light
The damn thing with a poem.
They give you a little dance,
But when they take off their clothes
Poems are stuck to their feet
Like blades of grass. All their lips
Taste like poems dipped into old
Barbecue sauce. They trail with
You after butterflies or leaping on poor
Fireflies, but when it comes time
To free all the prisoners
Their keys will only unlock
A chest full of more poems.
What's wrong, they will say, don't you
Like poetry? Eyelashes
Wink, but the closer you look
The more you make out the ends
Are fastened with small poems.
Earrings are acrobats with
Poems to be handed out
Like flyers to the breathless thrilled to death
Crowds clamoring below the bleachers. They'll invite you
Over for dinner, but your
Fork and knife will have been replaced
By rolled up poems, tied with
Typed out blurbs. These poets don't
Believe in poetry as
A way of life, of being
Awake, they see it as a
Fabulous job and they must
Get there first for, or die trying.
All these poets want you to
Swallow their words without chewing.
Without thinking. Without
Buttoning or unbuttoning. Without feeling further
For the poor souls who need it
The most. Without so much as
A thank you for the sacrificial listen.
Bonus poem:
The Ragged Stars Spit Their Stained Wooden Teeth on the Soggy Ground
by Darryl Price
on belts upon the cold slice of my clouds
like sopping poor man's curtains. I can't help
this hill. You get to climb into someone's
friendly valley lap and sleep. I can't help
these flopping, wounded birds trying to fly
through dirt like sick frogs. I've got my tiny
skeleton scarf to drag myself with, but
you've got each other. I've got my parched hands
stuffed in my pockets like missing scars, but
you've got more than yesterday's tears. I did
not get to forget. I've got my Captain
wherever I go, but you've got your steel
army of polished fingers lifting you
to safety above the splashing norm. I've
got my lonely window full of dreams, full
of blowing leaves, but you've got your apples
like new pink erasers in a basket
of no wrong. I've got my songs in my head
like shadows that came apart. I'll never
see you again. I've got my electric
wires, it's all trees on a slope. I've got a
diamond soul, but you've got a paid for
future, no matter the burned out sorrow on my brow.
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People want to be poets like people want to be rock stars--but it's not that simple. It's not enough to write poems. It's not enough to read your poems in public. It's only enough when it's enough to matter throughout time and space. It's only enough when people want to turn off their TVs and hold each other tightly as you read to them.
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Thank you. *
"These poets don't
Believe in poetry as
A way of life, of being
Awake, they see it as a
Fabulous job...
All these poets want you to
Swallow their words without chewing.
Without thinking. Without
Buttoning..."
Man, is this a smart, incisive poem! Excellent, Darryl!
*
Glad I'm not a poet. Loved this.*
I love this and feel awful at the same time. ♡ *
TRUTH.*
Sad sorry lot, poets.
Thanks everyone, very much appreciated.