The Panic Bird
just flew inside my chest. Some
days it lights inside my brain,
but today it's in my bonehouse,
rattling ribs like a birdcage.
If I saw it coming, I'd fend it
off with machete or baseball bat.
Or grab its scrawny hackled neck,
wring it like a wet dishrag.
But it approaches from behind.
Too late I sense it at my back --
carrion, garbage, excrement.
Once inside me it preens, roosts,
vulture on a public utility pole.
Next it flaps, it cries, it glares,
it rages, it struts, it thrusts
its clacking beak into my liver,
my guts, my heart, rips off strips.
I fill with black blood, black bile.
This may last minutes or days.
Then it lifts sickle-shaped wings,
rises, is gone, leaving a residue --
foul breath, droppings, molted midnight
feathers. And life continues.
And then I'm prey to panic again.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (The Panic Bird by Robert Phillips )
- Gifts, Scott J. Shepard
- Courage, Scott J. Shepard
- For Those Who Starve, Scott J. Shepard
- Gorgeous Girls, Scott J. Shepard
- Your Wet Eyelashes, Eyelids, Bijay Kant Dubey
- Minor Keys, Scott J. Shepard
- My Forgotten Love, Gianni Pansensoy
- Social Reconstruction, Scott J. Shepard
- Rain, Chad Seagraves
- For the Taste, Scott J. Shepard
Poem of the Day
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Invictus, William Ernest Henley
- I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou
- Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe
- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- A Dream Within A Dream, Edgar Allan Poe
- Dreams, Langston Hughes
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
- Heather Burns
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)