Blue Sky, White Clouds
—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
WATCHING AND WATCHED
After Edward Mycue, Cover Art for Mindwalking
Black leaves against sky of mottled blue,
small clouds forming—the hour turning
the wrong way on the chalk-white wall,
losing time and meaning, and through the
latticed window an empty face looks down
at the woman fleeing from her dream—
hands held wide with effort to run, pushing
against escape. She turns her head back and
the dream can be seen through her skull—
her head full of bees where the viewed dream
is a black swarm—buzzing with warning:
hurry, hurry, she is about to waken.
Atmosphere
NEW DAY
The sky, filling with morning blue,
a fragile cloud or two, threading.
A sharpness of birdsong penetrating the silence—
brief—and from no distance other than
where it was a startled moment back. Then
that slow, soft tone of whiteness
that takes the place of early blue.
The sky, filling with morning blue,
a fragile cloud or two, threading.
A sharpness of birdsong penetrating the silence—
brief—and from no distance other than
where it was a startled moment back. Then
that slow, soft tone of whiteness
that takes the place of early blue.
The way you surrender the owned moment
to the intrusion of sounds and urgencies,
your reluctance to rise from the warm bed,
seductive with comfort, warm around you.
The sky again, gone flat
outside your window measure,
full of daylight now—the clouds
losing their pink direction, taking on
the heavy factory gray
that smudges them. You stretch, and sigh . . .
You look at the clock . . .
to the intrusion of sounds and urgencies,
your reluctance to rise from the warm bed,
seductive with comfort, warm around you.
The sky again, gone flat
outside your window measure,
full of daylight now—the clouds
losing their pink direction, taking on
the heavy factory gray
that smudges them. You stretch, and sigh . . .
You look at the clock . . .
Cryptic
DAY OF FALSE LIGHT
Today is a day of false light . . .
day before spring . . .
day of swift clouds . . .
and changing motion.
It has rained.
A small rain. Last night.
It washed my car
and gave the grass reprieve.
I felt a moodiness.
Could not believe my lethargy.
Wasted the hours.
I should have started
some big change—
I felt the thought,
but could not follow.
All day I felt
myself recede
while I watched
the intricate weather
spread its rumor.
Strangely I heard no bird sing
nor felt
its shadow cross my window.
All day
I waited for something
that never came, wanting something
that I could not have,
though I could not find its name.
________________
KINETIC
After Vasarely's Harlequin
you are fat balloon escaped
from a circus waving goodbye
you love the diminishing blue sky
the clouds you pass through
you feel like a safe childhood dream
the same black edges find you
you become closed pattern of light
beloved toy of darkness
_________________
DRIVING THROUGH THE HILLS
these levels of hills
beyond which reach the sky
and my yen for distance
.
one blue upon the other
shades of distance recede into the
pale-to-darkening sky
.
the hills come to me now with their
overlapping tones and shadows
old twilight hills that I am watching
.
a thin line of river flows up the mountain
leaving behind a small lake
upon which a small island is floating
these levels of hills
beyond which reach the sky
and my yen for distance
.
one blue upon the other
shades of distance recede into the
pale-to-darkening sky
.
the hills come to me now with their
overlapping tones and shadows
old twilight hills that I am watching
.
a thin line of river flows up the mountain
leaving behind a small lake
upon which a small island is floating
Surreality
SOMEWHERE, THE LONELINESS
After The Corn Poppy by Kees van Dongen
Wide sweep of wind across cloud-torn sky,
gray upon blue,
wild yellow grasses bending below,
a lone tree struggling in a nearby field—
this is free country,
nothing to surrender or resist,
no bird or sound but the wind.
The day is gathering the hours.
The grass is rustling. Something
must happen, else why are we here,
the only observers, a place of no
landmarks and no roads.
There are many trees like
this lone tree. The clouds turn ragged
and tear through each other, hurrying, hurrying.
Ethereal
THE TURNING
That winter day when we walked in rain
and wind, and I wore a coat, and you wore
a thin white shirt, and our wet hair
flattened to our faces as we leaned
into the elements of our discussion,
and the cold skies moved in heavy
tones of gray—immense and rumorous—
though we were only out for an easy,
winter walk, around the windy, rainy block.
(first pub. in Zambomba online, 2002)
In the Quiet
THE PINK LANDSCAPE
After The Trail by Joan Miro, 1918
That pale stone house between the soft green dis-
tance of those far trees under this generous blue
sky full of nervous clouds—this random vegeta-
tion that tangles and leans—this almost-road that
wanders through it. Here is where we will sort the
morning. Take off your shoes and feel the warm
silt rise; go in a crooked line—whichever way you
choose—but end up at the house. It hasn’t rained
here yet, so the colors sift and fuse to this soft day
of pink sun-shadow where the warm light lies. And
all around us is the silence that I brought you here
to hear—here in the way time does not fly, but waits
for us to catch up with it—here! this here! this now!—
is where we are together. Feel the quiet. Feel the cool.
Feel the promise in the air. Be content with me. No
other time will be this rare.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
TABLE TOP REFLECTION
—Joyce Odam
. . .tree-leaves in table-top reflection
from skylight/upside-down-tree/flut-
tering green sun-light in glass top/
blue sky below . . . pleasant vertigo. . .
___________________
Many thanks to Joyce Odam for serving us a hearty breakfast in the Kitchen today: lots of blue sky and white clouds, our Seed of the Week! Feel the promise in the air! Spring is headed straight toward us!
Our new Seed of the Week is Angry Birds. You can go with the obvious, the cartoon/video game, or you can listen and watch the landscape around you for birds protecting their nests, for example, or chasing cats, or...? Send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from.
—Medusa (Celebrate Poetry!)
Harlequin
—Painting by Victor Vasarely (1904-1997)
For more about Victor Vasarely, go to
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
