The comb would
slide through my black hair.
I’d use a rubber band
to tie it, or a clip to
hold it at the side.

I’m not fond of the mirror,
but my eyes would peek through my glasses
to notice a few strands
now discolored.

A few other strands would fall
over my jacket and stay there for long.
Some other would fall over my slippers
that I have worn all day long.

Some other have decided to
leave themselves over the pillow I rest my
anxious head upon,
others over the study table,
with the silver computer
besides the half open half read novel;
some over the patterned rug, maroon in color.

I can find a strand
over the piano
I haven’t played in a while,
inside the case of the phone
wondering whose number to dial.

A few strand fall off
the jacket into the closet
that has not been opened,
for days right now do not require
special clothes for occasions.

A few other remain
in the teeth of the hair brush
after the ones fallen in the sink
that I decide to throw away
in the bin.

Strands of my hair,
my existence.

I’ve been on the attempt to write one poem a day following the Eleven11 Poetry Challenge by the Word Warriors Nepal. Poems 1-5 were more visual as I made videos out of them, but suddenly I began missing just seeing a poem emerge over my screen. So here is the 6th poem, on the screen to be read in your own pace and voice with a background music only you can hear.

The prompt for day 6 was to write an ode to 20 things I’ve used in the past twenty days. There were many, but here are 20 of them in italics with my attempt to converge them into a poem about strands of hair.

Posted by:Alfa M. Shakya

Someone who likes to make things.

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