Poetry

Feathered Things

In the woods on a blue moon night sits an owl, who given the correct password, leads to a tired old raven, wise in many things and many ways. I ask it why the silence is always so painful, why the white waiting room that goes on forever is still never vast enough to contain that feeling. It replies; because if it were not so, we would never appreciate when the silence ends.

 

Poetry

A slight roll.

Heads on shoulders:

pebbles atop broken

rocks,

half-carved into

torsos, arms, necks.

They roll down the ravine.

Suicide, you would think.

It’s not.

Instead – life.

A chip here,

a dent there.

They reach the bottom

battered.

Some unrecognizable.

They reach the bottom.

No longer caring

to go back to the top.