Ode to an earring

Odes

image

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 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.

Switch off

Commentary

Today I’m not going to drink more than three cups of tea, no matter how much I convince myself that my throat hurts or I have that craving. I will drink more water and I will make a mental tally of the liters I down by night time. It will be close to the big two and I will feel a sense of achievement for doing something that should be part of my mundane routine anyway.

I will not spend hours getting tangled up in website links and referrals and e-mails and replies. I don’t have to update my facebook status or tweet that I’m drinking water for the day because it is not important. I will not open photoshop to edit any one of my candidate photos for flickr. I won’t even browse other photographs for inspiration and I most definitely will not log in on tumblr. All that inspiration and clicks can be downright distracting, especially if it leads me to etsy. I cannot allow myself to go on etsy, or any other online shop for that matter, because today of all days, there will be no window shopping. Even my metaphorical wallet is empty.

I will make the bed in the morning, and I will actually eat breakfast because it is the most important meal of the day I persistently choose to forget. I will call my mom to see how she is because I will remember to reach out across the telephone line that separates the measly distance between us. If I’m ambitious, I will also make the 10-minute drive to see my grandmother, who speaks in television language because that is all the company she has. I will make her day by sitting down next to her and listening to all the episodes I missed during the week. I will call my friends for a casual coffee drink of water and I will make the effort to be more than a Facebook friend.

Today, I will set aside time to read my book, even if I’ve forgotten its title from the time it’s been to hold it. I will not do this before I sleep because I want to read more than just a couple of sentences. I will write in my real journal, not my blog, about the thoughts in my mind, the things I most wish for, the quotidien that saturates my minutes. I will think of friends abroad and actually call them. Or better yet, I will sit down and write them a letter, not an e-mail. I will play songs I’ve forgotten about and I will sing along fearlessly. I will take a walk on the beach and I will write a poem. I will jot down my ideas on actual paper that is inside a thought notebook, not a post-it note.

Today, I’m changing everything. It all starts today.

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 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.