What I Have Done

 The Journal 

* * *

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Art by Joyce Odam

 

 

THOUGHTS FROM THE SEVENTH DAY
OF AUGUST
—Joyce Odam

This I have done :
stared at the sun too long.

Thought the wind in my hair
was mine.

Ached
to be bird.

Welcomed and given the pain
of love.

Looked through the golden eyes
of the summer lion.

Turned into leaves
soon after.

Belonged to nature
as no human should.

Walked through the souls
of the dead.

Worshipped
weeds and flowers.

Practiced the sorcery
of thought.

Knocked
wood.

Destroyed myself
with seven sins.

Danced in the arms
of a shadow.


(prev. pub. in Arx, Nov. 1969; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/21/18)

 

 

 

A Thought One Has 

 

 
WATERMARK
—Robin Gale Odam

Pressed into the morning,
visible in a slant of light, trace
of your exit—crisp as parchment.


(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2016; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/7/23; 8/22/23)

 

 

 

Aminal

 

READING BACKWARDS INTO LIFE
Its sad journey...

words float into soundlessness  
unspoke . . .

hop-scotch was always made
of white chalk . . .

charity shoes were always
tap-dance . . .

how tenderly the careful hand,
holding a butterfly . . .

herds of butterflies unfolding
in the skies, now disappearing . . .
   
a lone word for, mar-ve-lous
trails after . . .

all is all  ,  knowing  ,  unknowing
simply dissolving . . .

backward  ,  outward  ,  evolving
oh sigh   ,   oh echo   ,   oh cry . . .
 

 

—Joyce Odam


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/27/23)

 

 

The Timetable

 

DEATH OF THE CLOCK
—Joyce Odam

After the moment has closed the hour
there will be no other.

The clock will close time
as we close a finished book.

We shall be caught in
some foolish moment of our doing :

raising a hand to strike,
breathing, chewing,

all the ticking in life
will stop,

and the eyes of the mind
have a final knowing :

no more metric feel, or sound,
or measure will be—

no deadline to hurry to, or miss—
except this one.


(prev. pub. in Cape Rock Quarterly, Spring 1967;
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/21/13; 4/27/21)

 

 

 

 Ways To Worry

 

NIGHT RAIN BLUES
—Joyce Odam

“Our house was in sound of the church bells”

Who hears the bell-sound in the rain
      —the soft wet dripping as it
                  muffles the neighborhood,

or is it the hollow song of the
         rooster from somewhere in the
                   distance—somewhere rural.  

The rain makes everything
         hollow; its waning fills
                  the night, which is morning.

How can one bear the realities that
         stifle and insinuate themselves
                  with such knowing ? 

It is all helpless irony—the rain
        that is here, and welcome—
                  the rooster’s wet crying.  

There are too many sorrows to share.
         They are swift and brimming.
                  They are released at this hour.

Oh, do not mind them,
        they are harmless
                  —beyond crying.


(prev. pub. in Medusa's Kitchen, 10/11/16; 10/2/23);
and Song of the San Joaquin, Winter 2022)

 

 

 

Without Shore

EXCERPT FROM THE RAIN
—Joyce Odam

It was the way into darkness,
a trickery of rain, a collage of shadows;

a form, then another, merging into glass light;
a sound like a laugh; then no one there.

You left your umbrella hanging on a knob.
I dropped a quarter under a chair.

We left the others, knowing the night
would hold them a little longer,

laughing, they waved goodbye
and blurred together.


(prev. pub. in Poetry Now, 2001; and
Our Black Umbrellas [Mini Chap], 2002) 

 

 

 

 Where Shall We Go With This?

     
WINTER HELD MY SOUL

they danced into summer,
my sweet liar
and the clever thief

             —Robin Gale Odam


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/22/23)

 

 

 

Nothing Left To Give

 

 
THE UNCUT STONE OF EACH OTHER  
—Joyce Odam

let us begin
they said
admiring the uncut
stone of each other

and they began the
chisel and shape
of their designs

cutting too deeply and
endlessly to free
the other’s perfection

when they were almost through
they cringed from
the damage love had done

and vowing at least
some restoration
raised their artist tools
again


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/22/23) 

 

 

 

No Compromise

 

THROUGH HER EYES
—Joyce Odam

There is a look that women wear
when your eyes are caught
with theirs,

when you want to know
her
because she will not be known.

And you will look back, or away,
and her look will follow you.
You will almost know her thoughts.

You will lose her then.
Her look is too private to go deeper.
It is a final look—

one that shifts
one feeling to another,
If you ask, she will tell you,

but never what you want to know,
or think you hear,
or guess, or let go—too close to risk.  

 

 

 

A Whisper Of Language 

SUNSETS
—Joyce Odam

Sometimes the call is faint and from
a distance unrecalled,
the first reminding

But a call was there
sifting between the silences,
I strained to hear it

It had words, muffled and tender,
it had urgency,
it made a promise too thin to hear

Had I time enough I would have followed
the first echo, I counted on the loyalty
of love that was as fragile

What in this terrible moment of loss
took precedence, what did I lose
that mourns so heavily in me now

I search the golden end of every sunset,
feeling, knowing, and remembering,
but all the sunsets glow like this
and none remember me

 

 

 

The Clues

 

TO PRAY ME FORTH   
—Joyce Odam

If God is the circle
and I am the circle
then there is no if

If one is many—and many
is one—which is plural
and which is circular

How does one round a circle
like the sphere of anything
and what is depth

What is the center of depth
where the holy star
burns in the dark forever

If forever is timeless and is
contained in a dream,
what is sleep

If understanding is knowing,
and knowing is the dark brilliance
what is doubt

If serenity is at the center of want
and need is the essence of want
what is the perimeter

If the spirit is round
in a shapeless place
what holds the void together

Is it we who are
holding the soul together
if we are ever in the last circle of . . .  

 

 

 The Politics of Love

Today’s LittleNip:

origami heart
now a wad of blue paper
someone else’s trash

           —Robin Gale Odam


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/22/23; 12/19/23)

________________

Welcome to 2025 to Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam, and thanks to them for their fine poetic thoughts on our Seed of the Week, “Before I Knew Better”.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Brandishing Her Sword”. Many NorCal residents love the beach town of Santa Cruz. But unfortunately, part of the Santa Cruz Wharf (about 150 feet of it) collapsed into the sea after storms just before Christmas (https://www.nbcnews.com/video/fbi-says-new-orleans-attack-suspect-suspect-driver-acted-alone-228327493531). I have the image of Nature “brandishing her sword”, slicing off the tip of this beloved structure in a fit of fury. But that’s my image—write about it if you want, or go wider and use that metaphoric sword however you see fit. Who is "she"? Wife, boss, mother bird? . Then 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

 

 

 

 

". . . how tenderly the careful hand, holding a butterfly . . ."

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
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Is it we who are
holding the soul together . . .?