—Photo by Joyce Odam
THE HAWK
OF SORROW
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento
The hawk
of sorrow hovers in the sky.
Its
shadow swells and fills the air with
elaborate
possession. It knows where
we are,
and it will wait. We feed it
sunshine
and lies. It is not dissuaded.
It wants our
love. We feed it bits of it
from year
to year. But the hawk of sorrow
wants it
all. It rests on its patience with
an old,
perceiving eye. It knows where
we are,
though we put houses between us,
though we
send up occasional doves
to
arbitrate, and fierce kites of menacing
shapes and
size. The hawk of sorrow
merely
shifts itself in walls of moving light.
It
starves. It wants our love. Tonight
it will
come down to claim the last of it.
___________________
TRESPASSING
—Joyce Odam
We were standing on tip-toe
trying to look over the high wall.
~
The light was thin
and two white doves were cooing.
~
There is a curse of red in every
black and white, you muttered—
fiddling with your camera.
~
Something red
caught at the corner of my eye.
~
Rain came down,
refracting the lowering sunlight.
~
Little white flowers, tinged
with rosy sun-flare, were making
sad wet shadows on the wall.
_________________
POSTCARD FROM THE LAST CITY
(based on Book of Art Noveau Postcards, The Posterists’ Postcards
by Alain Weill, Paris, October 1977)
—Joyce Odam
She
balances white doves on the tips of her fingers.
Her loose
hair tangles in the wind. She
floats into
the
energy of light that envelops her.
She looks at me.
But she
is disappearing into time—that old distance.
She wants
me to follow. Her doves flutter
away, then
back to
her, when she mentions this. She
holds herself
still for
my answer. This is to tell you
that if you don’t
hear from
me again, I am in the heaven of her promise,
which I
believe with all my heart. Be
happy for me.
—Photo by Joyce Odam
OWL, AS REAL
(based on Claude Monet: Gare St
Lazarre-2)
—Joyce Odam
Owl I cannot see—myth to
my ear,
think I hear, when doves
coo— near,
and lonely—that’s how an
owl must be.
I sense a flutter, which I
feel is owl—
secret and low—seeing me
as but a form
to pass in swift erase of
sound.
I feel its shadow freeze
with mine.
I’ve heard of owls—know they
exist,
I
often hear a dove coo, and think—owl.
_________________
ANOTHER DAY
ANOTHER DAY
(A Rainis Sonnet)
—Joyce Odam
You ask me why the windows go so dark;
I tell you there is no more light
to lose.
You pull the shades to their old
measure-mark,
I watch the night take on its
somber hues
as one last flock of doves flies
from the trees
with flutterings of white that
seem to spark
and then go out. We feel the
moment freeze.
This is the day we entered with
such praise.
It dwindles down like all the
other days.
_________________
THE GRAVE STATUE
—Joyce Odam
She holds
two doves: one close,
one to let go, what she
knows of holding: life is
two doves.
Fragile:
Death does
the holding here—
the erosion of time,
She contemplates the
doves. They are
her doves.
Stone girl,
stone doves—held by
her fierce love—trying to
grasp meaning—her refusal
to
lose them.
One dove
whole, one broken,
they hold close to her—life
does the healing this time.
She lets
them go.
____________________
Our thanks to Master Chef Joyce Odam for today’s fare. You can still see Joyce’s photo album, Celebrating 88, on Medusa’s Facebook page. That’s the good thing about those pages—they stay there forever. Scroll around and find all the wonderful albums that our poets have sent us.
The Seed of the Week is Under the Boardwalk. What goes on
under the boardwalk? Remember the old song? Are the goings-on salacious, or sad,
or celebratory? Which boardwalk is it? Santa Cruz? (See Cynthia Linville’s
current photo album on Medusa’s Facebook page for inspiration.) Do you have memories of
your own, or fantasies…? Or is it about the sea-creatures who scurry around?
Maybe Poseidon and his mermaids are having a Labor Day BBQ. Anyway, take a trip
under the boardwalk and tell us about it; send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com No deadline on
SOWs, though—click on Calliope’s Closet up at the top of the blog for our very
long list of previous SOWs and Forms.
___________________
Today's LittleNip:
that sound that doves make
soft flutter of their talking
petals in the throat
~
Joyce Odam
___________________
—Medusa
—Photo by Joyce Odam
