Ode to an Ode

 Ode to an Ode



Oh, Dearest Ode with clunky name, we use you.
No matter our choices from pesky gnat
to Grecian Urn, you do not block or mock
our pure or snarky impulses to please.

Why wait for funerals to laud? Extol
odes upon the living, lift the truths
and tiny lies with form and purpose
to ease a subject’s desolate days. 

You gave Neruda and Lorca a box
to hold their love of Whitman. Wrapped 
words shaped into sweet, sweaty bits of soil, 
skin, and sky. On and on you share yourself.

Ancient as kindness you are, old as 
papyrus, yet alive, young and pleased
with yourself.



Mary Strong Jackson

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