Tuesday, January 04, 2011

In My Dream

In My Dream...
—Photo by Robin Gale Odam

—Robin Gale Odam, Sacramento

In my dream I wrote the poem,
three lines,
in my dream.


Our Seed of the Week is In My Dream, and thanks to Robin Gale Odam for the inspiration. Some say it's not fair to write about the dream world because anything is possible, anything can happen. I say, so much the better! Let loose those bonds of reality and tell us what you're dreaming about—either the kind of dreams that pop up in your sleep, or your dreams for the future. Anything goes! Send your dreamings to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726. No deadline on SOWs.

And thanks to today's other contibutors, including Ann Privateer who is finishing up our holiday fare, and Carol Louise Moon, whose poem was inspired by William Bronk's "Primate Behavior" which was posted on Medusa Dec. 30 under the heading, "We Stare in Thought".


 Photo by Ann Privateer

—Ann Privateer, Davis

A snowy night walking to church
mother holds my cold hand
while I think how mistletoe berries
look like caviar, both celebrate love
one is deadly, the other nourishes.

We are garrisoned by snow
the slick pavement deliquescing
into winter's cobwebs.

Bread, shelter, clothing, what more
to ask for when the enemy yawns
behind the speakers.

We wait outside the doors for Midnight mass
as patient as time hovering over Big Ben
where father is deep asleep.

We listen to angels sing inside Notre Dame.
The organ thunders, jeweled flakes glisten
under street lamps for wonder to unfold.


—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento

I stare in thought in the dim light of my bedroom.
Three feet above me, on the underside of a storage
loft, within the particle board is the image of a sad,
contemplative orangutan. I've thought him to
be some sort of god, almost mystical being, having
missed the opportunity to connect with humans.
And now, his sad demeanor relays to me that it
is too late.

This avatar would have us know that his departure
from our kinship thousands of years ago was due,
in part, to a revelation that our technology would
do us in; would be the undoing of us all. He, having
chosen the simple communion with nature, left off.
I've dubbed him god-of-anti-technology. He, always
in thought, stares past me.


—Robin Gale Odam

Yesterday I
was supposed to reflect
on my merits and vices,
but...oh, what the heck.
I won’t sigh when it aches
or resent any task
or cry when it breaks
or sip the old flask.
I won’t snap at the creatures
or fail to comply
or scrunch up my features
and swear I will die
if one more annoyance
competes for my time,
won’t grumble to find
I’m the last one in line.
I resolve to resolve
to get everything done,
to not be so serious
and try to be fun.
Forget it, I’m having
the last piece of pie
and if you don’t like it
I’ll think up a lie.


—Robin Gale Odam

He spoke softly. 
His clothes were dirty.
He longed for a bath.
He had lost everything.
The story was behind his eyes.
His good hands looked cold.
The recycler handed him
two dollars and
ten cents.

I wished I could help...
thought of my warm home, food,
shower...thought of my innocent children
and held my tongue—he was, after
all, a stranger.

He put his change into his pocket, said
a few kind words and walked away,
into the gray first morning of the
brand new year.

The recycler handed me
seventeen dollars and
fifty-five cents.


On Winter Branch
—Photo by Robin Gale Odam

—Robin Gale Odam

They loved shamelessly, dark silhouettes
on winter branch of cottonwood tree,
commanding full rights to the gray
morning sky, mated for life,
about twenty years.


Today's LittleNip: 

—Robin Gale Odam

Over-told, preachy sentimental
trite vague verbiage,
trying too hard, shaping it,
working it, won’t let it lie or rest
or die, kicking a dead horse,
suffering, poor miserable poem,
I love you.



Wake Me Up
—Robin Gale Odam