IN THE PRISON OF MY REJECTION

To start the new year off, 

here is a new poem by Charlie.

Lots to think about here...

We invite you to share your thoughts with us.

Happy New Year to you, and 

may this be a good year.

(Libby) 

IN THE PRISON OF MY REJECTION

 

A poem by Charles Patrick Norman

In the prison of my rejection live rejected men, rejected

by society, so isn’t it odd that they, in turn, would reject

men they judged more worthy of rejection than they?

So it was in the prison of my rejection, two rejected men

walked together, round and round, shunned by rejected men

for their sins and proclivities known to be indulged in that world.

So after the storm the rejected men found a baby mockingbird

on the ground beneath a palm, blown out of the nest, so of course

they tossed it over and over, up to the nest, to no avail.

The baby bird fell and fell, one stick leg snapped, broken,

rejected by family that couldn’t cope with its infirmity, it would have died,

so of course it was only natural to put it in a shoebox,

Which the rejected ones filled with rags for a nest, and a

plastic bottle filled with hot water, so the rejected baby

would survive the cold night beneath bunk beds in the prison.

Of course it had to eat, or die, so the rejected ones went

on the hunt for grasshoppers, crickets, dug for worms, even

bread balls from the chow hall, they tended their charge,

Even splinted the broken stick leg — too late — the leg fell off,

left the baby mockingbird balancing on one foot, which it was

prone to do, on the shoulders of one rejected man or other.

So the three of them walked the track together, Bobby —

they named him Bobby — hopping back and forth, chirping,

demanding they find more grasshoppers, crickets, and worms,

Which they did, relentlessly, since others would not approach

them, even the curious, for they were so rejected, even by

the rejected, others would not help the three of them.

So Bobby survived, flapped his wings, learned to fly,

went off to catch his own food, balancing precariously on

fences and eaves, visited other birds, but always came back.

One day he didn’t come back, flew away to be with his

own kind, mockingbirds, ones that looked past his infirmity,

accepted him, found a mate, like the rejected ones.

Another day, rejected men in their crowds walked round

and round when out of the sky a sleek gray mockingbird

with one leg landed on one rejected man’s shoulder.

Sang a long, sad song, serenaded the men, balanced

precariously, flapped his wings, hopped onto the other

man’s shoulder, then rejoined its mate on the fence.

So new men would come and go, and gape at the sight

of the sleek gray mockingbird flying, landing on a

rejected shoulder, singing, serenading, bringing them happiness.

In an otherwise loveless world of prison rejection,

where their own kind shunned them, stayed apart, all except

for Bobby, who loved them, and saw past their infirmities.

POET’S NOTE: This poem has been roiling in my mind for  over twenty-five years, the images crisp, clear, and unforgettable, the oddity of two strange little prisoners walking endlessly around the track with the chirping mockingbird flitting from one man’s shoulder to the other, one or the other pouncing on a green grasshopper, holding it up, the bird gulping it, and later, the adult bird returning unerringly to sing a song, and leave again.   CHarlie