To consume less,
To create more.

We fill the room with noise
To chase down the ghosts
Who slip past us
Without us looking up from
The screen.

To silence this is
To find solace.

To wake up from this slumber
Is to notice the song
Erupting from within

To sing softly
Under the breath
Is to chant like hummingbird wings
And fluttering leaves
And cresting waves

It is not the loud cries from the mountain top
But the whispers in the valley
That carry these words on down feathers and dandelion seeds
Through the mist and the breeze
Until we are heard
Barely, but broadly
Over the sounds of
setting suns
And rising moons,
And shooting stars.
We whisper wishes
And listen for the whimpers
Of those before us

They will not blare
But we will hear them between radio signals
In the static of snow

Remember those days:
Laced with angel hair and
Shards of glass 
The smell of synthetic cinnamon
Candles in the fire place
And it was all about the wait
Anticipation met with
Pine needles gathering
Shiny wrapping paper
Hanging ornaments like
Toys with narratives
Songs sung into canon
Carved into this
Melting pot culture
And the best memories were not
A present
But the gift of time.

My photo albums feed
Online obituaries.
And my yearbook is full
Of platitudes and prayers
I no longer believe.

Faces flicker in the dark,
The light never catching fully.
Synapses firing through caverns.
Memories etched on cave walls.
A smile -
A laugh:
The perfect epitaph.
But I don't know them
And they don't know me
Not really.
Not any more.

It is easier to post
Celebrity obits
On social media
Than to know what words to use
To grieve these ghosts.

We flip through images,
Waiting for them to come back,
Wondering if they already did.
These ghosts have been gone.
Memories buried in these graves.
Long before death.

Laughter rumbles deep,
From within became without,
Joyful as we weep.

My third eye
weeps
and runs dry.
She blinks
slowly
and the darkness
creeps.
She closes to
constant
sounds
and busy
ness
She stares
for a long time
unable to focus.
I must rub
the sleep out.

Words tattoo themselves.
I cannot forget the voice.
The silence deafens.

Once there was a pause between meetings and greetings.

Once we dipped feathers in ink,

Giving words time to sink,

And used penmanship,

and flowery language,

To impress with, we hoped,

The impression of initials,

Dipped in wax,

Sealing the envelope.

Do you remember,

Waiting by the phone?

Making sure it wasn’t off the hook,

Relieved to hear the dial tone,

You’d take another quick look,

And worry that in those few seconds you picked it up,

They got a busy signal.

Once there was a pause between meetings and greetings.

And now,

those means of communication,

Are always within reach,

We become part of the constant conversation,

With a chat,

An email,

A facebook message,

A text.

And you start to wonder,

What’s next?

How soon do you reply?

Is it ok to follow them on twitter,

Before the twitterpation is returned?

Can I profess my love aloud?

And share it on a cloud?

Do you use shorthand, acronyms and emoticons?

Can you LOL at your true love?

When do you become Facebook official?

And does it start to feel more real?

When the relationship is also virtual?