New chapbook from Red Bird Chapbooks!


My second chapbook “Yes I Know You Can’t Drive Across The World” was just released by Red Bird Chapbooks. Pick up your copy!

“Daniel Pereyra’s poems capture the wonder and delight of everyday life.  In “afternoons in the backyard,” the author and his son play in a kiddie pool, and fight demons like bees. [Life] As a father, “i am his hero and he my apprentice.”  Billy Joel shows the narrator that it is no longer his life, it is his now son’s in “a lesson from the piano man.”  The son “…tells me about his day / and how he colored an elephant yellow / because he really likes yellow.” Pereyra’s poems also reflect on rainstorms in the desert, treasures left behind in attics, and the dynamics of married life. A spider decorates the porch and a fly critiques wine choices. The author speaks for many of us in the final lines of “some honesty on a tuesday” when he says,

that i think, with sincere clarity,             drinking my coffee with eyes closed /

damn, i’m tired.”

on movement and butterflies

we strike a conversation by the

tiny blooms of yellow and red
that ask to be held in a
half-smirk’ed gaze,

and wonder on the best way
to get from flower

i suggest she fly
let the wind be her motor or
anchor to her sail boat

i’ve seen the
                    way she moves

on the wind

she says i should take the bus
which when said out-loud is
of course, absurd

and so maybe i’ll walk
while she feigns envy at how
i move against the grass

but it’s me who bleeds jealousy
at the pace she keeps /

and i know i still have
so much to learn about
movement and flowers

my life as the moon against a studded sky

bright against a studded sky
i am the moon
who brings up tides
in the wake of my rising
half eye squinting between
ripened citrus trees
finite in my reach
and yet
                    far reaching
i am the younger brother /
stoic captain in a night sea
yellow eyed demon and purveyor
of romantic and cursed alike
who howl for my favor
and sing to my good graces
                    i am the entryway
to a solitary chorus
portal through the thickness
of the dark
i am the gilded silver
of the nighttime sky
                    eremitic and alone


i can see you there,
finite in your reach
sentry in a desolate place

stoic captain in a red sea
i howl for your delight
and sing to your good graces
; a solitary chorus

portal through
the inky darkness — the unknown
reaches of this gilded sky
and i

left to linger –
mingle with the quiet
waves, and in your light
sit watching

my name is the moon

she calls me by my name
but my name is the moon

i am the constant traveler
caught in tiger lilies and juniper roots

i am the smell of green things
along a shoreline;

i am autumn shades
silhouetted against stone –
how it reflects the soul

my name is branch seed,
                    tree child
                                        sun’s eye
wind song
                    root feeder
                                        fallen lover
and i answer to each in turn
while carried down a roiling river

mirrored crossing

there are calm waters and then
there are waters calmed
by the passing of a bare foot
while cross
                                   a ro
and the world turns in the
so that i am submerged and my
reflection goes in my place,
i am living in the shallow depths
of the spring air
fish swimming over my head
from beneath the surface

youth is a falling leaf


youth is a falling leaf
caught in the unseen
pulled towards the unknown
rocked gently in the arms
of spring breeze

resting on the surface
of a swirling maelstrom
just beneath
the clear water

youth is the sprinting river
cradling the stones
smoothed by it’s embrace
kissed by frozen lips;
runoff from forgotten winters

and the marriage to an
indifferent sun,
high above the touch
of the pitiless frost

youth is a sudden journey
ripped from branches
clutching and safe,
left to twist in cursive waters
turned by juts of earth

aloft on sudden currents,
fresh perspective
hurdling towards


there is a spider web resting
in the corner

                              where the flower
pot by the door meets the
wall of the house

                              and it’s full of dry leaves
                              and purple flower petals

and i can’t help but
wonder if the spider who made it
is happy with the decorating

or like me, feels like it’s
just good enough

which is how i feel when looking
at the bare spaces on the walls

knowing there is a box of
picture frames collecting dust
in the spare closet

small journeys

i want to write poetry that’s grand,
sweeping from the morose to the
cheerful in under

twenty lines; the kind of
poem that last for days
in the mind of the reader /

something profound, like keats
or whitman or seuss

and yet when i sit at
my desk and type using
only four of my fingers

and the cats outside wrestle
with leaning sunflowers;
like giants sniffing at those

lower creatures, or sparrows
swoop one at a time at the stale
bread left for them earlier that

            morning, already i’m miles from
            where i started, somewhere less grand,
            less sweeping, yet somehow more so

; coffee in hand and toddler on my lap
laughing at the silly animals outside