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