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Claire Wilkerson Poem
Ode to the Cockatiel
You exasperate me.
The most maddening creature
To walk,
Waveringly across the tabletop
Drawn by an invisible wire
To my bowl
You stand
On the tips of your claws
Four scaly toes strain
You peer
Over the edge
And take a nibble
Of what’s inside.
Did you like it, little bird?
Your beak smiles
As you climb,
Perch
on the rim of my bowl
And with neat bites
Eat my breakfast.
And I wonder,
Why do I keep you around,
You have no manners.
Sometimes I admire
Your slender tail,
Body the color of a storm cloud
Head the color of the sun
With two orange embers burning in your cheeks
And the elegant,
Filmy
Swoop of crest.
I pick you up
Light enough to sit on my finger;
I no longer marvel at that,
Long ago becoming accustomed
To the marvel living in my home,
I take you and
I scratch your head
I feel the softness of your feathers
Between my fingers
I feel your skull
And realize you are much more fragile
Than you like to let on,
You sweet bird,
Resting your head on my thumb
Trusting me completely.
And then my thumb displeases you;
You must attack it.
Hissing and pretending to bite it
And I smile
At my
Utterly confounding
Cockatiel.
Copyright © Claire Wilkerson | Year Posted 2018
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Claire Wilkerson Poem
Farewell to Summer
The yellow leaves are falling, here they lie
In drifts of golden coins across the ground
This show of beauty nature’s last goodbye
As winter’s noose is tightening around
And as the sun sinks softly out of sight
The forest stirs, the wind begins to talk
The somber trees are bathed in glittering light
Beneath the moon the restless spirits walk
Inside their houses people are afraid
They hide themselves from winter’s slow advance
Content with fireside and food they’ve made
Not I, for autumn is the time I dance
I wonder what new treasure I will find
Within the autumn forest of my mind
Copyright © Claire Wilkerson | Year Posted 2018
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Claire Wilkerson Poem
Sometimes I eat my lunch alone
Where no one is nearby
So many friends have disappeared
Despite how hard I try
But the train has left the station
'Cause I can't make conversation
Each time I try to talk to you
It's like a wicked hand
Clamps clammy fingers o'er my mouth
And I can barely stand
And the train has left the station
In this dying conversation
As I walk through the halls to class
People catch my eye
They call to me-I call to them
But always pass them by
I always pass them by.
Copyright © Claire Wilkerson | Year Posted 2018
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