Poetry Slam

Yesterday my school had their first "annual" (I use quotations because I think it will be the last of its kind) poetry slam. Being a somewhat enthusiast, if sporadic, poet, I decided to sign up, even though I despise being on stage. But I figured, "Hey, I'm a good writer. Maybe I'll have a chance of winning this thing." Unfortunately, all the "judges" were random people in the audience, and about 75% of them were seniors...and friends of the seniors who were performing. Being a lowly junior, I didn't even make it into the second round. Only seniors did. Oh, well - I got some darn good poetry out of the thing. 


We had to write three poems: the only guidlines were no lewdness or language. I'm posting one here on the blog for the funzies, but you can view the other two on my DeviantART account, here and here. 


This one is titled "Bird Bones" - yes I have a fascination with skeletons. Enjoy. It's a little long. 

Upon the ground against the sand
I saw it: the skeleton of a bird long dead. 
Sightlessly staring at the sky. 
The cage of its ribs gleaming white,
its keeled breastbone, strung 
in perfect harmony
against those outstretched bones of wings,
scrubbed clean by constant rivertide
‘till flesh is but a memory,
yet still contains the yearning, 
the aching memory of flight.

I stopped to look at those old bones
huddled on the river’s edge,
like fledglings too afraid to fly. 
Within, I saw their hollow chambers,
cathedrals in a dust-bound world.
Sacred geometry, delicately forged, 
gossamer webbing against the dark.

The bones began to speak to mine;
whispers, just the barest voice.
Let me tell you, so they whispered,
let me tell you of the story
when my old kind first took the leap,
and crossed the gap from ground to sky.
Let me tell you of my story,
when these old bones once dreamt to fly:

Shallow seas act as a womb; 
a cradle; the stirrings of life contained
in its evanescent hold. 
Armored ancestors tread the sand
as seas conjoin and landscapes shift;
to suit the ever-present wish,
the need to overtake the skies.
How bones and carapaces are the ballast
a constant temperance to their flight.  
And even now, as time has passed
and as the old ones have turned to dust,
the dream to fly is still kept beating
a dream forever realized. 

The bird’s old skeleton lay untouched
save my careful observations.
I blinked, and saw them as they were: 
simple bones they are no longer,
instead, the path to something more,
something old and uncontained:
the children of a careful plan,
evolution at its best
designing this uncanny blueprint
to celebrate the joy of life.
That croon their secret words to mine,
their story of the urge to fly,
and simple ballast, the reminder,
that we can always find the ground.