If you find the place they forgot to bomb send me a
hot pink postcard. The planet is only so big. We’re already dipping
our heels into the waters without wanting to become true believers, miserable
followers. The bedtime stories will have to change their heroes into fish,
their fish into men, their men into mists. And hope for rain.
And hope for the storm to end all storms. To bring the
purple dawn. To be a light peeking through the swollen blocking rocks.
Look what’s the point of being quiet? Anything they shoot will have
been us. It’s easy to see yourself as something moving in a
lit cloud, but, really, we all want to be held and allowed
to openly weep for the young victims. Choose your weapon. If you
find that place they forgot to mow down plant me a tree.
If you find a place they have forgotten about please destroy the
map. If you find the peace you deserve tell your love I
am thankful for her tower. If you find a place they forgot
to bomb don’t let on. Don’t do anything different. They are looking
for war with their one revolving fiery mad eye. War is on
their sick snarling snake lips. You can see their diets hanging from
their teeth in tattered bloody strings. But keep a cool head. Laugh
but let it go. Cry but let it go. Bury your dead
but let them go. Keep dreaming. Fill the world. Smile but let
them go. We are not the innocent ghosts here. Not yet. We
are the beacons, talking our beauty into the dark places. We are trying
to figure out what it means to care after all care is
wiped out of the air and off the ground. That’s where you
come in for me. You are an outlawed song I can remember.
I love that song as much now as the first time I
heard it. No world should be turning and twirling without it. No
new bird should attempt to sing a bud to life without it.
That’s as much of an explanation as I can offer. If you
find a place they forgot to remember, then celebrate the chosen days
that are left with everyone you meet, regardless of their animal nature.
If you find a place they forgot to bomb try to stay
there for me. The flood is not going to care if you
are beloved or not, if you are one of them or not.
But remain vigilant. But keep trying out new things. If you find
a place they don’t believe is magic, don’t forget what you see
with your eyes closed to the money. But keep your head open.
But keep your heart awake. This is no time to pretend you
don’t love poetry. If you find a place they forgot to bomb
make a joyful noise and release it into the shadows. Heal it.
But keep trying out more ways. But remember where you heard this.
Meadow Grass for the Lonely
“In my life
Why do I give valuable time
To people who don’t care if I live or die?”—The Smiths
For all the young poets
My broken heart is still alive,
You can’t really trust me to just
Sail away. My broken heart is
Still wounded and perpetrators
Of war are still at it like the
Little naked emperors that
They always are. My broken heart
Is still writing and there is more
Death than bees in the friendly skies
These days. I suppose that is to
Be expected. Broken and still
Alive and some persons have been
Shown to be more conforming to
Cultural pressure than others.
Even if my heart’s alive you
Don’t owe me an explanation,
I don’t need to be forgiven.
My broken heart is still around.
So many machines, so little
Kind words. Is there an answer? Gun
Sadness, little gun sanity.
I would never leave you behind,
But I don’t need to talk to you
Any more as a matter of
Urgency. I don’t want to go.
My broken heart is still alive,
You’re still being personified
In your female form as cool, blessed
And tempting. My broken heart is
Still kicking and sometimes I don’t
Know what I’m doing here at all.
My sad self’s still here and I’m just
A silhouette of strangeness. Each
Broken heart brings a cold ocean.
The disappointment tides on your
Face like a mathematical
Problem. My ruby heart is sunk
In a circle of overgrown
Stones. My broken heart is very
Much alive, sentient as the
Earth itself. My broken heart is
Still active and sometimes I wake
Up in the middle of the night
Lost in moonlight. My broken heart
Has elected to finish this
Song’s journey. My broken heart is
Spouting a tiny blue flame. This
Broken heart is still human and
Not a databased illusion.
Still beating, I believe it may
Yet do good if I don’t stumble
Sorry-eyed and afraid over
My own words. My broken heart’s
Against the loss of any real love.
Darryl Price is the author of Holding Your Light and The Ferocious Silence. He has published dozens of chapbooks and his poems have appeared in many journals. He is currently the poetry editor at the Olentangy Review.