For My Promise
—Photos by Robin Gale Odam
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
TURN THE PAGE
—Robin Gale Odam
Last yellow December rose,
saved from frost, cut tenderly for
my crystal vase, for my loving heart,
for my inspiration, for my promise of
sugar water and a bright location,
and for companionship as we
awaken and turn the page.
______________________
SAD KISSES AND SAD WORDS
—Joyce Odam
December: January: Count of time.
The step from one into the other—
the last and first of something:
the new with its promise: the old with its regret.
Let’s be happy now…
confetti falling… balloons trapped at the ceiling…
embrace and kiss;
who you hold now is who you will hold forever.
Forever is now. Hold tight. It’s only a moment,
Make no promise. Or promise everything.
This is the one moment of the year you wait for.
It is here. Drink up. Say Happy New Year.
(prev. pub. in Joyce's mini-chap, Listenings)
______________________
THE DIRECTION
—Joyce Odam
The year comes trailing in like an innocent
bystander and finds me in the first hour
and we size each other up and take some
sort of stance to suggest intention.
So we greet each other carefully and ask
direction of one another,
and here we are at the same beginning—
dependent on one another, somehow,
to make it work—whatever we say
and mean. And we wander off together—
down the days—and become destined—
though the particulars are yet to be realized.
__________________________
NEW YEAR’S MORNING
—Joyce Odam
A leftover horn from some
stale celebration is bawling in the distance,
probably in the hand of some child—
loud in the morning.
I can see it now: crumpled on the end,
red foil peeling, three tassels dangling.
What a sad, old sound it makes—
over and over—
like some animal
trapped in quicksand,
or on barbed wire, or drought,
or winter—you know—a suffering.
_____________________
APRON
—Joyce Odam
She has hidden herself now
in a garden of threads
and melting colors—
the cloth of memory,
cross-stitched with stories,
textures and scents familiar—
lavender roses
and pale narcissus,
the seasons mingling.
Only the hours know how to fill
and renew. She waits for that renewal.
She waits and grow late with waiting.
—Robin Gale Odam
Last yellow December rose,
saved from frost, cut tenderly for
my crystal vase, for my loving heart,
for my inspiration, for my promise of
sugar water and a bright location,
and for companionship as we
awaken and turn the page.
______________________
SAD KISSES AND SAD WORDS
—Joyce Odam
December: January: Count of time.
The step from one into the other—
the last and first of something:
the new with its promise: the old with its regret.
Let’s be happy now…
confetti falling… balloons trapped at the ceiling…
embrace and kiss;
who you hold now is who you will hold forever.
Forever is now. Hold tight. It’s only a moment,
Make no promise. Or promise everything.
This is the one moment of the year you wait for.
It is here. Drink up. Say Happy New Year.
(prev. pub. in Joyce's mini-chap, Listenings)
______________________
THE DIRECTION
—Joyce Odam
The year comes trailing in like an innocent
bystander and finds me in the first hour
and we size each other up and take some
sort of stance to suggest intention.
So we greet each other carefully and ask
direction of one another,
and here we are at the same beginning—
dependent on one another, somehow,
to make it work—whatever we say
and mean. And we wander off together—
down the days—and become destined—
though the particulars are yet to be realized.
__________________________
NEW YEAR’S MORNING
—Joyce Odam
A leftover horn from some
stale celebration is bawling in the distance,
probably in the hand of some child—
loud in the morning.
I can see it now: crumpled on the end,
red foil peeling, three tassels dangling.
What a sad, old sound it makes—
over and over—
like some animal
trapped in quicksand,
or on barbed wire, or drought,
or winter—you know—a suffering.
_____________________
APRON
—Joyce Odam
She has hidden herself now
in a garden of threads
and melting colors—
the cloth of memory,
cross-stitched with stories,
textures and scents familiar—
lavender roses
and pale narcissus,
the seasons mingling.
Only the hours know how to fill
and renew. She waits for that renewal.
She waits and grow late with waiting.
Visitors
—Photo by Robin Gale Odam
—Photo by Robin Gale Odam
THE SNOW GLOBE
—Joyce Odam
It was summer, and there was no cause
to fear rumors of ice and snow—
old warnings of dire-predictors,
weather-people, people with charts
and ways to know such things.
The high sun glittered
on our bright horizon—
in this—
our longest summer ever.
But winter was quick with sealing
and we found ourselves locked in a
time-lost globe, being roughly shaken,
until small flakes of white
went swirling—as if to make fly
the six frozen birds in our winter sky.
_______________________
THE ARTISTRY OF DOUBT AND HOPE
—Joyce Odam
Feel the artistry / moving
through you / and be silent—Rumi
Impose your heart upon the silence,
what is beheld in thought and dreams—
the hope of doubt, and oh, the doubt of hope.
The art of understanding is beyond the mind
but not the heart—it’s in the silence—
not the blare of thought that so befuddles.
What fails
is something powerful and strained—
a shadow and a blow.
What is, that is not known?—mystery
its own—more powerful than clues
or any solving that will be.
Take up the trust again.
It helps you look where nothing is,
and helps you look again.
Today's LittleNip:
PRUNE ROSES IN DECEMBER
—Robin Gale Odam
Precious yellow flower, oblivious to the
rules of landscaping, lovely petals above
the silver curve of blades gleaming in the
last December sun.
_______________________
Robin Odam’s home, where her mother, Joyce Odam, has been staying while her fractured hip heals, lost power in last weekend’s storm, so they were unable to send her Tuesday post to me. So I filched this one from Dec. 31, 2010—hey, it’s all still relevant, yes?—and thanks to them for that. Nice to see yellow roses lighting up these dreary days!
Our new Seed of the Week is “Back on the Horse”. 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. And see every Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.
_______________________
—Medusa
Courtesy of Joe Nolan
For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
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.
