WING CLIPPED BIRD

I feel old, useless,

Clumsy, dull witted,

Incapable-

Sometimes it seems

That everything I try

Is wrong…

Even this poem.

Because it sounds as if

I’m feeling sorry for myself.

Well maybe I am.

How else am I supposed to feel?

When I look at my life

I feel like a bird:

Grounded,

Looking up;

Seeing others soar-

Others of his kind,

Others of MY kind,

Wondering why

I can’t fly anymore.

I look at my wings

And see they are clipped.

Ah yes,

That’s part of the agreement-

The unspoken, spoken agreement.

If I wanted to live

Around my kind,

Any kind,

My wings can’t carry me

Because they only carry me

Into trouble-

They tell me

So sometimes I flap them

Remembering the days

I rode the wind-

Letting its currents take me

Where they would:

Sometimes dangerous,

Sometimes fun;

Always interesting

But no good

They tell me:

For myself

Or mainly others

So I have become

A sensible bird-

I won’t fly;

I can’t.

They tell me

I shouldn’t look

At the others.

Maybe it’s because

It will remind me

Of all I had,

And all I lost,

And all I’ve got left.

But YOU try

Not looking up,

Impossible…

As I walk

Unsteadily

Toward whatever

Whenever,

Wishing I could fly

Again.

-Chip Bergeron

  January 2, 2011

  1:10 PM