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Tuesday, June 19, 2012

The Old Arm-Wrestle

Wee Doll Smiling
—Photo by Joyce Odam


FATHERS WHO DANCE IN THE SUNLIGHT
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento

backlit—dazzling—
out of reach of their daughters
though their daughters
dance toward them
tearing the shadows between
to golden shreds
but the fathers
are so busy dancing
in the sunlight
of all those summers
dancing away
from them
and their mothers,
dancing with
some golden lady
of smiles
and the fathers
are only
backlit flares of illusion
blinking through the eyelashes
of their slow and distant daughters

_______________________

WE WHO ABANDON, WE WHO SEEK
—Joyce Odam

Oh, father, who left me, who
I equate with god—what do I mean

by refusal to love, to let return?
Why keep the question alive—

that cry without answer—
seek nothing where nothing is?

Oh, father, who became a forge,
I am incomplete. 

______________________

THE OLD ARM-WRESTLE
—Joyce Odam

Between the son and the father
the old ritualistic force
abides in the ruts
of father-hood
and son-hood—
divisional—
with
such
a hard
incision—only the
blessing-curse of love
holds hope against the stubborn
grip that fights against submission.



 —Photo by Joyce Odam



SONG FOR ASHES

—Joyce Odam


Go easily, Father.
You are so light
and there is a
gentle breeze lifting.

Soft on the beautiful air
a piper sound is returning.
All of the other children
have entered the mountain.
Forget your lameness
and your mother’s warning.

I have watched you play
the game of old too long.
Do not let my tears
delay you.


(first pub. in Pyramid, 1970)

____________________

FATHER FRAGMENT

—Joyce Odam


My father is an old rumor.
Where is he now,

his lifelong disappearance
still disappearing?

Life goes one way by itself.
What if my life had held him?

Father, I name you ghost.
Ghost-Father.  Haunt.  Haunt.

                     
(first pub. in Naked Knuckle, 2003)
 
___________________
 

FATHER DEATH

       (after Dietrich Fishcer-Dieskau,
       “Lear” Oil/Acrylic, 1979)
—Joyce Odam

Father Death, with icicle tears upon his
ancient haunted face, is old and blind.

He mopes in his palace chair in a gown
of melting white and weeps all winter. 

His old wives press around him
with their jealous eyes and blend into

his mottled blue environment.
They moan their cold blue winter cries

to assure him of their presence.
Soothed a bit, he falls asleep again

and dreams the next dream to its end.

____________________

Thanks to Joyce Odam for wrapping up our Seed of the Week: When Dad and I... and putting a lovely bow on it!

Be sure to check our blue board over to the right of this column for this week's happenings, including Kathryn Hohlwein's Homer marathon, which takes place in Fairy Tale Town all night Friday night. They will be reading Homer's Odyssey. For our Seed of the Week, tell us about your Odyssey, either literal or figurative. Was there one event/job/person/trip that marked a turning point for you, or has your Odyssey been more metaphoric than actual? An aha moment, maybe? This week's Form to Fiddle With (see the green board) is the Persona Poem; maybe you'd rather put on the persona of someone or something else and tell about their Odyssey. Send your trippy poems to kathykieth@hotmail.com, either this week or... No deadline on SOWs.

____________________

Today's LittleNip:
 
DEARTH
—Joyce Odam

Such a
huge space to fill:
my father—my stranger—
time’s distance between us, full of
hate/love.

____________________ 

—Medusa


—Photo by Joyce Odam