Bird in Hand

Bird in Hand

No one will ever think to notice
or take heed of my newest secret.
It will not cause the ringing of bells,
the start of a mighty stampede,
or a crowd’s jubilant applause.
Yet it brings me the joy of contentment.

The knowledge that I have performed it,
the conquest of long-dreamed completion,
is like a baby bird trustingly sleeping
within the palms of my hands.
I know it won’t start singing.
It’ll never take to its wings and fly.
Yet, at times it will chirp with pleasure.

Oh, it’s quite ridiculous, I know,
to wear my pride on such triviality.
In an age where giant steps
mean leaps and lunar walks,
discoveries are always macro
and voluminous and wise . . .
So, “making a difference” must
perpetually rhyme with “merit”.

But, still, I harbor my trifling success
as a handful of private pride.
The sun streams into my bedroom
and hits my smiling, panther eyes,
for I did pounce and bravely triumph
(though the kill was a loss not a gain).

I recall the beaded drops of effort
that lined my face for so long
as I fought my diminutive battle.
Maybe, victories can be smallish?
After all, I diminished items
and grew space where none existed
by filling white and plumped-up bags.
Yes, I achieved a coup d’excess.

On Saturday with steel in my veins,
a wrinkled, fretting forehead,
several self-lectures and bitten lips,
I skirmished with multitudes
against inconceivable odds.
And though, no one even noticed,
and no one will ever care,
I secretly won the closet war.

Hanging neatly, straight and true,
now nothing’s crammed or slanted.
Finally everything has its own place.
And I, the general in charge,
can survey the sweets of perfection.

Thus, I have my tiny bird in hand,
and, when I open the closet doors,
now it tweets with soft serenity.



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Round Two Prompt: silent/secret/quiet accomplishment.
No length limit, free verse or form (for you old school poets), must include some aspect of your own personal experience