POEM - Unmasked flight
Exploring the concept of Unmasking within the theme of ‘Flight’, this poem was written for the Liquid Amber Press Poetry of Flight Competition, 2025
It Hurts
Pretending
Every day an ache between what could be and what is
The difference between a lived life and a matinee
A yawning chasm of dark agony beneath pristine face feathers
You forget
It has been so long
The screams from the chasm are relatively quiet now
Drowned out by the incessant chattering of magpies
Oftentimes, the noise of them is almost soothing and you feel tethered
Beginnings, like endings, herald both sun and moon
A small grey owlet hesitantly branching in the night air
Soon, the branchling’s flight feathers would come in, and it would be time to hunt
But not yet. Time moved slowly. The owlet’s feathers, mostly soft powdery tufts.
Sunlight soothed tired owlet feet, worn of gripping. Soft whispered warbling, a sign of rest.
Unlike magpie counterparts, the young owlet must learn to hunt and quickly no less
No time for rest now.
Drills
Again
And again.
Like all cataclysmic change, the buildup was slow — then very fast
The home tree, reduced to ashes
Relocation to the nearest bird sanctuary
Confinement, the eerie cousin of protection promises — in captivity acquiescence prevailed
Slow suffocation. A haunting wail.
Loneliness didn’t come for the owl as it pottered about its tree alone
It waited until the owl was surrounded by the melee of pointed black and white arrow tails
Loneliness didn’t come until it was heavily laced with terror
The bright sunlight tinting the murder of magpies, eyes blood-rimmed and beady
Failure to assimilate, a danger thinly veiled.
The full force of terror hit the unsuspecting owl with a jolt
As the cacophony of bird screeches reverberated inside the small bird’s skull.
All they wanted was to be wrapped in soft silence
The silence beneath the earth? The owl wondered
Death — A silent, stealthy refrain.
At night as the chatterboxes laid down their black and white heads
Under the watchful gaze of the beneficent moon
The owl’s sense of themself returned
There was silence in the night
Soft underbelly feathers fluttered out with gusted air.
Hopping in the daylight, aching for night
The weight of protest bearing heavier than daytime flight
One lone owl with a new set of tattered flight feathers, attempts to fly amongst strangers
The owl’s wings were made for solo, shadowed flight - too heavy and slow for flapping
Wings made for flying high to new horizons not built for friction-fueled pumping
Alone, finally, the owl howls — one long keening wail to the guardian moon
The sorrowful moaning from the yawning chasm, at last released.
Silence. The soft moon’s whisper: You were never meant to fly like them. Let go.
A lurch. Weightlessness. The tilt of the exhale into the warm waiting updraft.
Wings wide. No longer alone. Last exhale. Becoming everything. A different kind of silence. Peace