Living Inside the Bell

—Photo by Joyce Odam

THE CLOWN DANCERS

—Joyce Odam

and the dancers lift

their little legs

high in their huge costumes

being clown dancers

and the music dances them that way

cute and funny

a jerky spotlight

follows them

their satin costumes shine

they leap like elves

then grinning

turn and bow

have praise for them

they do not dance that well

                                      

(first pub. in Poetalk, 1995)

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THE WIDOW'S CLOWNS AND MANNEQUINS 
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento  

Today she leaves the sun shining

against the afternoon wall

to go inside.

But strangely

she leaves the door open

behind her.

A window guards the dark,

its stare

impersonal as hers.

The rooms let the shadows in.

Her cherished figurines animate

on the mantle.

Beyond this, it all blurs,

something she wants to remember,

some need that wishing has not freed. 

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LOVE AS THE FOURTH DESIRE
—Joyce Odam

The clown in his fourth desire

saw no reason to take offense at the world.

Love was his desire.

He performed only for her.

He made himself into a fool

and she laughed.

If he took off his costume and makeup,

she would not know him.

He was destined to be what she believed.

He perfected himself and she grew bored.

 —Photo by Joyce Odam

 

PUDDLE REFLECTION

—Joyce Odam

 

I see me

upside down

in gray water

a clown

a-drown in teeter of self

precarious once again

as chance holds me

still

within a camera

click

goes decision

and I exist

as only proof requires

a candid photograph

I smile in the sun

closing eyes

again

before you see me

         

(first pub. in Senior Magazine, 2010)

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DEPLETIONS

(After "Unscheduled Appointments"

                  by Gayle Ellen Harvey)

—Joyce Odam

They cancel their little deaths

to matters of no importance—various

and thin—like ghosts, or shadows—

like those sounds they think they hear

in morning quiet after nights of vague

celebration—as weary as repetition.

Already they blur into voices that regret

dead loves with that humor they save for

sadness.  Drunkenness gives them mercy.

No wonder they love—badly, or wrongly,

deceptively complex, what they need

for the moment—or lifetime. Later they

will elaborate on this—with reverence, even,

going over the broken memories—detail

by detail—until everything falls apart or fits.

_______________
 

REMEMBERING WHEN THE BELL RANG

—Joyce Odam

Living inside the bell

we have become afraid of sound.

We pray for silence.

The dimension of the bell

is all we know.

Somehow, though,

the times it rang

were the best times of all;

loud celebration times

when dogs howled and we sang,

when the very shadows

rolled and rolled

past the upturning edges.

I don’t know

why

we live here.

                      

(first pub. in View Magazine, 1974)

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Our thanks to Joyce Odam for today's fine fare!

Friday the 13th is coming, so, for our Seed of the Week, let's tackle Lady Luck and see what we can talk her into, muse-wise. Do some poems (or art or photos) on the old bag and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com. If you get stuck, there's always Calliope's Closet, the FUCHSIA LINK at the top of this blog, with lots of hints, links, and springboards to get you started. All the Seeds of the Week we've done over the years are listed there, plus past Forms to Fiddle With—including, at the bottom of that page, forms that have been made up by our readers. Check it all out!

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Today's LittleNip:

For a change, lady luck seemed to be smiling on me. Then again, maybe the fickle wench was just lulling me into a false sense of security while she reached for a rock.

—Timothy Zahn

_______________
 

—Medusa

 

—Photo by Joyce Odam