Ode to the Haiku

Crisp constructed ode
Prompts thought and introspection
On the road to oh fuck this you can’t control me Haiku.

Ode to an Ode that has Already Been Oded

O dear Ode that has Already Been Oded
You taunt me so.
As the waft of a thought
Of a leaf’s reddening death
Enjoyed by us
Because of
Not in spite of
Its demise
Pleases my untrained eye,
My heart sinks knowing that
Some chump
Cleverer than me
Or trained at some Ode College
Has already Oded
And with greater virtuosity
About the very same thing.

Ode to Still Doing It

We lose.
We have our side
And their side
Indentations of each of us on each of us.
And we lose and we remember and we remember what we lost
Until we don’t.
And we know we will and won’t.
That’s it.
That’s the silliness of it.
That’s the silly beauty that is us.
We gain
We know we will lose
But we gain nonetheless.
We actually choose to.  
Sillies.
The more we lose
The more we grasp to gain.
We know
But still we do it.

Ode to a New Memory

O dear New Memory
How I wish you were not a memory.
No offense.
How I wish I could kiss sleep sip sweetly weep
Forever.
But no.  You
New Memory
Force yourself into that dear moment
And morph it into you.
That’s no good.

It’s just not cool.

And on top of that
New Memory
If I am indeed forced to move from
A moment
To its memory
(That’s you)
If that is what I am doomed to
Then your final insult
New Memory
Is that you yourself begin to fade and fade
From faded to forgot.
That’s just no good, New Memory.
It’s unkind.

Unless of course you’re a shitty memory
In which case
Thank you.  Oh thank you.

Ode to Flying

Do birds get bored of flying
Like we get bored of driving?

I’d love to come over
Says a bird
But I’ve been flying all day.

Ode to the Ode For Queen Anne, By Handel

First listen:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wyAxJs1U5SU
Now revel.
Holy Crap.
Queen Anne.
Dude.
Someone wrote this for you.
Sure, okay, fine, maybe
He was obliged.
But I mean.
Like.
Let’s be serious here.
Let’s consider what he did, shall we?
I mean, come on.
Right?
So.
Like.
Here’s a manual on how to die content:
1.
Have Fredric Handel write you an ode
That sounds like this.
The end.
Jesus Christ, Queen Anne.  
You were one lucky duck.

 

 

Ode to our Voices Recorded

There was a time
Not very long ago
When the only version of our own voices
Was the one we heard as we spoke.
Spake?  Let’s go with spake.

We’ve all had that moment
Haven’t we?
Upon hearing our recorded voice
in which we’ve thought
Aloud or aquiet
“That sounds nothing like me!”

When in fact
What you sound like to yourself
Sounds nothing like you
To anyone else.

An innocence lost,
Then
This newfound self awareness
Brought on by
Recorders of all kind?

I wonder what Kronkite thought he sounded like before he heard himself.

Ode to a Christmas Sans

This will be our first Christmas Sans.
Funny how Sans almost begins
Santa.
Sansta.
Sansta Claus is the man in the red suit who comes to families Sans.
Sans Someone.
He comes to families in their first year Sans Someone,
Does Sansta Claus.
He’s the solemn older brother of Santa,
Is Sansta Claus
His reindeer don’t dash, dance or prance.
But steadily pull dear Sansta on his weary way.
He has visited some homes numerous times.
Each visit with a sad sigh deeper.
He bears gifts
But in each one, a touch of sweet painful remembrance.
Both dulling and brightening
The previous years of his brother’s jolly presence.

Sansta Claus will come to us for the first time this year.
And we have no choice
I have no choice
But to welcome him.

Ode to my Funeral

I want my funeral to be the day before I die.
I want to be there amongst all those I love, all gushing poetically about who I was, spraying praise they believe now but will contradict within a year or two.  
“Actually, he was kind of a dick.”
But I won’t hear that.  
I will be in a perpetual state of MOVED, having departed the day after being loved so thoroughly, like a bride and groom or a newly mitzfahed youth.
Next time I’m feeling deathly ill, I will make some calls,
And they all will come, and we will listen to The National and eat pesto and sundaes and cry and love and love and love.  
And I can only hope that the next day will be my last,
Sprung into the ether on the wings of my own importance.

Ode to Sigh

Your silent GH already puts you at an advantage,
Sigh,
Over your clumsy cousins
Tough
Cough
and
Laugh.
Add to that the fact that, when said, you slowly fade from the voice,
Trickling from the psyche and into the world,
and
Rough
Trough
and
Enough
Can only…
…sigh…
With envy.