Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Gray Silk Days

Snow fell upon the lily …
… but she still bloomed
—Ronald Edwin Lane, Weimar


Where air-silk flows like dreams
over the gray moiré
of this soft morning—

the wet leaves tipped with
light—everywhere flashing amid
the golden music of tiny songbirds

through the perfect light
where no sorrow is allowed—

where the smallest flower
will blossom because you find it
and the gray silk days

will soften into evening
and the sky will ring with stars,
so bright you’ll praise them openly.

—Joyce Odam, Sacramento


Thanks to Ron and Joyce for today's symphony of pictures and sound, still celebrating Tiny Moments of Joy. Wet morning—you got that right!—up here on the mountain I'm looking out at snowy gray and another day with the snowplow. Remember that photo of our deck I posted last week? Multiply it times four; we've seen about three feet of snow since then. Yesterday the power was out all day, too; we have a whole-house generator, so we were fine, but then the Internet/TV went out right after I posted Medusa... oy. They're back in operation today, though, and people are fumbling through the snow, continuing their daily lives—as are the other critters! Right now the jays and squirrels are lined up at their feeding station, ready for breakfast, so I'd better hurry with this.

Still, tiny moments of joy, right? Thanksgiving for our snow (which will result it your water) and the cycle that's keeps our earth going, including the squirrels and the jays. Gratitude: Enough. Our Seed of the Week. Give-away! Send me poems about Enough by midnight on Sunday, Nov. 28 and I'll send you a rattlechap of your choosing: that's kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726.


—Joyce Odam

The car floats on the calm water.
Floating under the car is a raft.

Island to island they go like that—

in tranquil departure
and arrival—where roads await.


—Joyce Odam

The clearest way into the universe is
through a forest wilderness.
     —John Muir

Follow the music of the trees.
Follow the music of the birds.
Follow the music of the
ever-deepening winds

that pull you deeper
into the waiting universe
of mind, and heart, and soul,
to where the promised love is.

(First published in Poets' Forum Magazine)


—Joyce Odam

where I am thin
sorrow pours through
I permit
the passage of sunlight
through these holes
I fold my darkness
like an old quilt of winter
all those squares
taken from old garments
I have been cold
all my life
now I am cured
of my unhappiness
I permit birds to sing
across my landscape
I open my trees for them

(First Published in Poet News, 1989)

—Joyce Odam

(After reading Standing and Knowing
          by William Stafford) 

I take the stillness you offer
and praise the finding,

Seeing was never like this.
Hearing was never like this.

What has risen in me!
I cannot bear it.


—Joyce Odam

(after a Max Tharpe photo)

The leaves are too many;
the boy’s hands
are too small.

There is
a slowness around him
that he tries to fill.

But the leaves will not wait. 
They say,  Now!  Now!
And they fall.

And the boys’ face
wears a gathering smile
for the leaves are

everywhere—just as he is,
with his swift evolution—
with the arrogance of

his joy and power, for he will
reach into the falling leaves
and catch them all.


Today's LittleNip: 

—Joyce Odam

Religion has touched your throat.
              —William Stafford

Spring now,
a bird interviews the morning:

an ordinary exchange, full of religion,
telling me,    telling me…

how there is joy in its little life.
I listen to its hymn.



Some leaves …
… Really can …
—Ronald Edwin Lane