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The Parrot
Green—
Lima bean
Hue—feathers decorate his lightweight
Frame, fit for flight. The crate
Imprisons him and renders feathered
Wings
Useless things.
Scarlet spots tinge his lime; yellow gold
Seeps in the creaséd fold
Of feathers and highlights his head’s crest.
White,
Like moonlight,
Contrasts sharply with his tropical
Colors, like a strong call
for him to soar out into azure
Sky
Or else die
Without ever recognizing the wealth
Of wings, the need for health
In catapulting his soul into clouds
Where
Misty air
May baptize him with dew drops. Yet he
Loses the mystery
And ecstatic freedom. How can one
Find
In confines
The satisfaction which is beyond
The crate in which he’s bound?
Some early mornings where the alarm
Squawks
(Parrot flocks!)
Me to awakeness, I resent those
creatures’ obnoxious noise.
But I peek out window blinds at the
Herd
Of the birds
Perched together on the power lines.
It’s part of God’s design,
And I accept their songs of freedom.
- Bri Mikalson
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THE COLORFUL GREEN PARROT
perched on a brown, wooden branch
in front of The Hotel Eden—
splattered in spots of white;
beak gripping a long black wire,
looping through branch; through bird to box,
and pointing upward
as the bird stares at the box of rings.
Off-centered spool holding black
in a box of white and flattened
spring, the destination
of the parrot’s eyes, connecting
ball orange, rolling from end to
end, hoping to reach
its green friend. Isolated, they remain.
- Roy Chung
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"Moore's Box" - A Game [click link to play!]
- Eugene Lee
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the sand my rest
the waves my life.
my hair tells of where i sleep,
sand pours out like water.
i put my feet in to take me away,
and on to other things,
but i am brought back.
- Jacob Sanchez
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