There are some things I own that I just can not throw away…no matter how tattered and torn. Memories and lives reside in the remnants, and to toss them away is akin to murder. If they are gone, then they are gone, and while my brain will eventually fade…the rough silken pieces can remain in my hands, recharging my memory with a single touch. I must keep them with me always.

My life is spent
above the air
the wind my only
whispered confidence
Angels my silent
cirrus companions.

Only I can see
the edges of the oceans
the alpha and omega
of the rivers
the boundaries of the
boiling deserts.

I can sit atop
the summits of
the highest mountains
if I wish
and I do.

For I am too high
for tree tops
too high
for the sticks and stones
of men
too high
to feel the storms
that plague them.

I only feel
the sun on my back
the cool in my feathers
and the favor of God
while I watch the world
because that
is what

Eagles

were made
to do.

Black Noise

Black noise
uses both hands
to grate my head
like a sharpened rake
on an icy block
digging deeper
with rotting fingers
scratching dark bloody trails
into my consciousness
and wickedly laughs
while it crushes
my brain
as I silently
scream
myself
to death.

With the flick of a tail
my muse is gone
swimming quickly away
into the blue
it leaves me no trail
it leaves me no trace
just leaves me to wonder
if bright shiny scales
were only a trick
an aquatic fool
of my dry
terrestrial eyes.

In the absence of light
with abundance of sound
and the wind in my hair
as the rain kisses ground
I can see without eyes
other senses abound
for my mind always knows
where to take me.

Lightning rods and weather vanes tell me all their secrets...and I listen.

Quiet stalks
on sticky pads
scaling walls and
defying gravity
waiting for darkness
and the reckless flurry
of dusty wings
that come
to the light.