Peace Be~

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

PEACE BE TO THE MORNING
—Joyce Odam

Peace be to the morning
with its cool announcement of arrival,
pale and thin, on wings of nothing . . .

And peace be to the fading of night
that takes away its dreaming and its sleep
or its long wakefulness . . .

Peace be to the mystery
of whatever is there—or not there—
that turns such pages . . .

Peace be to the memory
and the forgetting of all that needs to be
forgotten and remembered . . .

And peace be to the moment
trembling on the brink of the next one,
and to that mystery, peace, too . . .
                                         

(prev. pub. in Say Yes, 1999;
A Sense of Melancholy, Rattlesnake Chapbook #4
by Joyce Odam, 2004; and in  
Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/7/15; 2/23/21) 

 

 

 

 While Outside It Rained

THE LURE OF AUTUMN
—Joyce Odam

This is the autumn we’ve waited for all year;
we are the falling leaves—the fierce red light
that turns the air to copper—the brimming night
that echoes this for hours, like a smear
of ancient blood upon the sky—minds clear
and open to the season—to the sight
and feel of all that hurry with hearts that might
turn rhythmic to this churning atmosphere.

We are the ache and joy of all that change—         
transfigured into something newly strange—
an older blood-flow urgent to belong—
happy to follow some age-old desire:                                             
We, who are an old, nomadic pair,
becoming now another autumn song.
                                         

(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, Fall 2021;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/27/15; 9/26/23)

 

 

 

 When It Rained

SEASONAL CHANGES
—Joyce Odam

At once the season changes. Every tone
of light is on another plane. The day
constricts. A shiver in the air finds bone.
Trees shudder and release the birds
that flutter out and briefly fly away.

Then time resumes its count, shifts back in place.
Summer continues, canceling what was there :
a touch of winter in some kind of race,
something to mock the lack of words :
which season choose, with no time to prepare?

                                                       
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/14/10; 6/28/22)

 

 

 It Was The Rain

out of arid night
legion of migrating winds
morning patina

    —Robin Gale Odam


(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2020;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/3/24) 

 

 

 

 Away Is Not Far

SUMMONED
—Joyce Odam

True as the gold light in your eye
that fastened like a sun
to my dark mirage,

a circle of stars, a core of words,
like a power surrounding you.
I was only heat-shimmer,

spinning in the light.
We did not reach,
I was dreaming on a blue ice floe,

you on another.
There was nothing to save us,
but love. Even our souls wept.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/7/12; 4/12/22)

 

 

 

 The Seventh Rain

WAILINGS OF WIND
—Robin Gale Odam

We have crying yet to do,
it will arrive now and again  
as the sprinkling over an early
autumn . . . and as a torrent.

Even now our tears are welling,
even now, though it is quiet, and
we are at peace . . . even now . . .
we remember wailings of wind. 

 

 

 

Night Has A Need

 

 

SEARCH THE WIND
—Joyce Odam

Know this of me, that I will search the wind
for your last touch. I will become a scavenger of
every breeze for something of you I have known.

Often I hear compassionate grass lean to a sound
and mourn against the soil in ravaged listening,

then sigh against my legs and tell me you are here.

Our energies converge. Nothing of what we are to
one another is spent, but borne through all the 

filters of awareness.

My hands enclose the living emptiness to treasure
you; the bending of my fingers makes a sound of
love upon the wind for you to hear. My pulse 

works thunder.

The chasm of our distance storms with angry love,
and I can feel you miss me in the lashing of all 

growing things. There is a wailing in the air when 

love shreds on the pangs of loneliness.

Nothing is lost. I answer with a yielding you will 

feel upon the wind’s return.
 

 

 

 Writing About Rain

Today’s LittleNip:

RUMOR AS TRUE
—Joyce Odam

What is this force of blueness
that comes from everywhere,
that we know will swallow us.

Look how it is forming—   
becoming a climate.

It knows where we are.
It has not yet made a decision.
Come, let us dress for the weather.

                                
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/8/22; 4/12/22;
12/5/23; 1/21/25)

____________________

Joyce Odam is no longer with us, having passed away last week, but Robin Gale Odam has been skillfully curating her mother’s poetry and photos for the Kitchen for years now, and (thankfully!) she would like to continue to do so. Our gratitude to you, Robin, for continuing to send Joyce’s and your work to us.

Our new Seed of the Week is “A Deer Passed by. . .” 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.

Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Joyce Odam (1924-2025)
—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis, CA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Wailings of Wind~