One day, if all that is left of me
are words scribbled across a page,
I shall not feel lost or shamed,
But, feel bodied within this poetry.

We've reached an age where we talk at people. There's no 'to' or 'with'. We carelessly throw words around to each other hoping not to catch any unsatisfying sentences in return. Most of these substitutions for conversations are shoveled bit by bit through radio waves to small circuits in our pockets. Verbal language has become distant and alien to us. We're too content removing ourselves from the intimacy of communication that we've created societal norms that only further entrench this behavior while encouraging a facade of emotionless abandonment.

An answer other than 'good' to the masquerade of an endearing question - "how are you?" - will raise eyebrows and prompt suspicion. How far removed are we as humans from one another that a question on another's well-being is genuinely regarded as a greeting and meant to be mostly ignored and never answered honestly?

Put down your device and pick up your tongue.

You're an old wave never washed away
Sifting through foam a year to the day
Lain across speckled sands
With coupled hands
Grains of memories nestled in the bay

You're a swirling tide never seen low
Crashing upon shores with blundering blows
Found in the sweltering sun
With dying fun
Bubbles of memories caught in the undertow

You're a flood never relieved**
Drowning all that was ever believed
Dove to the dark deep
With nothing to see
Waves of memories bashed against the levee


~

I peeled back the bandages on wounds once sealed,
To show the history of what's been healed.
A door into who I used to believe I was,
A small man acting on foolish cause.

Battered and broken, showing my age.
As my conscience took the darkened stage,
Spouting a harsh and ominous soliloquy,
Which made me grateful I now live differently.

Let it out
Twist the cap
Pop two out
Relax, sit back

A gate into the world has cracked.
Light flows into the youngs' eyes.
Stumbling using their large feet,
The eyases stare into their falcon's shadow.

Born into a world, born into their nest,
Along a cliff where they'll spend their youth.
40 days they'll spend here.
2 months they'll be dependent on their falcon.

The tiercel will be fierce.
He will protect his offspring.
The falcon will nurture.
She will feed her offspring.

But all must leave the nest.
Twigs, dirt, and dead vegetation,
No longer can contain the eyases.
They fledge until they're confident.

Avid hunters and brutal slayers.
Beaks covered in blood were once creamy young.
They patrol the skies as kings.
They're "of noble birth; aristocratic".