You nest in my hair quietly
An adornment of silver and gold.
And today I chose you especially
To dress my sunny imperfections
In your thoughtless sparkle.
But the wind begged for a dance
Tossed you irreverently in arms
That ached to reach you
In a heartbeat you were swept off your metallic hook
Dancing to the rhythm of the swooshing waves.
I searched for your trail along the beach
But you had stolen away,
To lead an independent life
Without me.
Your partner mourns in sorrow
Waits for your mundane replacement
Silently.
ode
Ode to siesta
OdesFatigue creeps up on me
like a hungry bitch after lunchtime
looking for scraps of dreams
and pillow feathers to cling on.
She invites me to her bed,
warm and soft,
and gently kisses my eyelids
to a lingering state of limbo.
I let myself go between fragments
of whatifs and havetos
until I lose control.
It’s quite the fiesta,
if you know what I mean.
Ode to muscles
OdesI am asking for definition,
Let my body hate me
with every bounce, even more.
On the tips of my toes
— on the verge of collapse —
I breathe out CO2,
bend my body to an illegible question mark,
stretch my back like a paralyzed cat.
My belly dances, the music beats
like a hammer on my muscles.
Contracting, detracting, contracting,
retracting. The image of my body
glares from the mirror.
The aching begins,
a better version of me,
sooner than requested,
should be with you shortly.
Ode to wii
OdesFirst there was me,
three-dimensional and quirky,
stumbling onto to misspelled words with joy
ravenously dining on question marks and what ifs.
Then there was mii,
decked in hot pink attitude,
a competitive beast roaring for a challenge.
My sweet side parting might fool
the casual observer, easily
I slip in and out of personas
and I am me,
and then mii
and we are both fun to be with.
Charmingly playful,
we indulge in petty forgiveness
and persevere onto the next level
before time runs out.
Ode to circuses
OdesThe savagery of fear
caged behind bars for exhibition,
laughing men cry out in cheers
for a round of applause, they pray
for a snicker or two-cent appreciation.
Vast canopies of entertainment of days begone
randomly make appearances in the mundane.
It’s a circus, we say
a play of the absurd,
an ode to all things stupid,
a staged production of no essence.
It’s entertainment these days:
slapstick on your plate,
served cold and rotten.
A meal we digest well, it seems.
Ode to teenagers
OdesTo misunderstood teenagers everywhere: It gets better. Wait for it.
This is for you:
Back to those zit-infested mornings
where your face was like pizza,
or the ugly side of the moon
shining on a class full of strangers
who cannot understand what you are
going through. Loveless
eyes scanning the area desperately
for lips to hang from, and words to decipher.
Back to days where insignificance
is of such great significance,
where the high is the low,
if you want to fit in
with the in-crowd of moaners.
Katy Perry reminds us well
of those hot days in summer with lovewords
pasted in online chatrooms.
It was the dialogue of the era.
A constant buzzing chatter, meaningless
communication. This was.
Ode to sockets
OdesUnobtrusively you stare
from the low end of walls;
hidden behind furniture,
you peek at the surroundings.
I turn you on with a simple click
and watch you slavishly work
to please me,
at a big price, nonetheless.
You keep a low profile
and store canals of underground cities
below the very floor.
Wired and electrified you wait
for the next power cut to illuminate
the power of the socket.
You muahaha as you watch
the panic, the disarray
of the darker version of life.
Ode to Muffin
OdesIn memory of our dearest dog, Muffin.
You woofed your way
into our plebeian hearts
and left a blondish trail
wherever your nose led you.
Mr Carrot had it in for you
for biting his head off;
Mr Ant was afraid
after you shut him up.
And now, you lay hushed
below trees that you played with;
and house corners wait patiently,
– in futile –
for your bouncing company.
I cling onto your long sigh of goodbye,
your soft exit.
No flowers for dead muffins, no remembrances.
Doggy sticks would do you just fine.
You always liked to plead and whine for them,
and we loved it.
And we loved you.
And we do.
Ode to trainers
OdesAmericans prefer the softer sound
of sneakers; a word on tip-toe,
silent, unfitting. As pathetic
as its English counterpart.
Occasionally, they are head collectors
of bunnies made of dust;
they lurk dormant
waiting for the next exercise burst
that will set them back on track,
for God knows how long.
They hate the ground, and like fists
push their way above it,
until gravity brings them down
in a thunderous whoosh.
They come and go, they ebb and tide
and wait for the next round
to get them out of their comfort zone:
The snug spot below the bed
needs some serious dusting.