Juvenile Jackdaws from the Clouds

A baffling rain of
dead birds darkened
my New Year in a
snowy Swedish street.
My knees buried
helplessly in the soft
ground I gazed
at a bird’s harsh demise.
His light blue eyes were
bordered with a deep
desire to soar,
but the carousels of death
inside were growling
too ominously.
The purple sheen on
his crown reminded me
of crazy queens
widowed after one night.
The tip of his beak buried
in the snow was like
a hopeless warrior’s sword
slipping sadly
into its shivering sheath.
No expressions
on his grayish-silver cheeks,
the bill and legs so black
(like fingerish twigs
basking in crude oil),
the green-blue sheen
on his throat
like a dose of poison,
the bird’s small stature
was a giant statue of death
on that white floor.
I was silent,
very silent,
and completely motionless.

Amit Parmessur, for someone who hated poetry, has been accepted for the past six months by over 65 magazines, including Ann Arbor Review, Burnt Bridge, Calliope Nerve, Catapult to Mars, Clockwise Cat, Clutching at Straws, Damazine, Gloom Cupboard, Heavy Hands Ink, LITSNACK, Mad Swirl, Red Fez, The Literary Burlesque, Shot Glass Journal and The Scrambler. As long as he gets published he knows that he is going in the right direction.

Find more by Amit Parmessur in the Author Index.

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