Ode to an earring

Odes

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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.

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Ode to siesta

Odes

Fatigue 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

Odes

I 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

Odes

First 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

Odes

The 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

Odes

To 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

Odes

Unobtrusively 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

Odes

In 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

Odes

Americans 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.