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Cockatoo
by Shirin Swift
I have no home, the Picasso bird cries,
white geometry and sprig of yellow
I have no voice only this view of the earthÂ’s lap
You resting on it, I have no flock,
And blame the tips of inchoate trees or Dutch armadas
In tatters, the palms cower in the afternoonÂ’s slap,
like the old lady dressed in hospital-green grocery bags
I have no mask only this masquerade
The rain jerks at the end of its leash
limps behind the arthritic thunder toward the beach and sea.
11/03/2007 Posted on 11/03/2007
Copyright © 2024 Shirin Swift
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Kathleen Wilson on 11/03/07 at 03:40 PM I love as if to be sitting in this bird's lap to hear "I have no voice only this view of the earth’s lap"-- from this window perched I hear such "thunder"--and love the contrasting powerful and light colorful everyday and extraodinary images that take... solo flight. |
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