—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—
—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
—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
—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)
(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