On Snags of Time

—Photo by Joyce Odam

 QUEST

—Joyce Odam, Sacramento

To begin this odyssey, we gave away all 

we owned—kept our map in a secret 

place, and memorized what we could of 

it to dispel our growing terror at the 

thought of thieves. The Spirit of the Self 

seemed far away but we had to find its 

shrine which filled the empty place of 

our imagination and desire. The village 

faded behind us with all our old connec-

tions. I could not relinquish everything. 

I kept a souvenir-cup from when I was a 

child; later we would drink from it and 

use it to scoop and portion with. At last 

we reached the shrine of our long seek-

ing—a small place, really—not what we 

expected—set way back, with all its 

windows broken, the path to it over-

grown. But something told us this was 

it. Though worn-to-the heart with 

weariness and dried-up tears, we stayed—

content at last, to repair its damages, 

hack its weeds.

                                    

(first pub. in Poets' Forum Magazine, 1998)

_________________________

THE GODS DEPRIVED
—Joyce Odam 

Nothing here is familiar—

a land of whispers and sighing.

The sky has lost its color.

Rusty mountains guard its borders.

At night there is a crying.

Old dreams gather to escape from memory.

But memory follows them

like timeless travelers.

Giant flowers lean and murmur—

offer the gravity of answers.

Morning will be cold again.

The land will wake to loneliness.

The birds of sorrow

will return

but without their singing.

The spirits of love and loss

will resume their searching.

The moans will sharpen everywhere.

The mournful gods will say, not yet . . .

not yet . . . and speak of love to one another.

________________________

THE SKY INVISIBLE
—Joyce Odam 

seagulls drift in the white sky

and are not amazed that it is night

and my dream of them

they cry their white cries

and search for themselves

in the translucent dark

all night they make the sky invisible

and my sleep that harbors them

I am held in dream’s white soaring

 —Photo by Joyce Odam

ON SNAGS OF TIME
—Joyce Odam

What of the room of longing

that holds no lovers now.

Sad curtains tear the

dusty sunlight.

All day the old room-shadows

search for what is gone.

At night the voyeured window

brings it all back,

when the closed room fills

with ancient moonlight.
 

(first pub. in Poets' Forum Magazine, 2007)

_______________________
 

THE DISAPPEARANCE

—Joyce Odam

They turn away from what was theirs.

The long afternoon. The joy of yesterday.

No music follows. It is a quiet time.

A time of eloquence, with no more to say.

The landscape shimmers.

A small stream continues its thin journey.

The sky goes white.

They have no horse.

They have no wagon.

They have only their walking,

their same direction—

still resolute,

as though without regret;

they grow smaller

as though distance beckons them.

They dissolve together in the gathering light.

_______________________

Our thanks to Joyce Odam for today's treasures! Our next Seed of the Week is Unexpected Pleasures. Send your musings about the little (or big!) things that surprise us, like the cool breezes we've had recently after all that heat, to kathykieth@hotmail.com

_______________________

Today's LittleNip:

TWILIGHT MOON
(An Octo)

—Joyce Odam

Wandering through the mauve garden,

bending like old trees toward night,

leaning our shadows together.

Is it sadness that we feel—or

something unknown that we deplore.

Leaning our shadows together,

bending like old trees toward night,

we wander through the mauve garden.

 

______________________

—Medusa

—Photo by Joyce Odam