Blush
—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
MORNING SOUNDS AND COLORS
Mauve-gray
of pre-dawn
just after night’s blue rain.
Winds of no color
break through the night,
sending the dark green trees
and leaves into a flurry.
Even so,
small chirping sounds
of softest yellow
burst here and there.
A squirrel scampers
along a frail board fence
outside the listening window.
I hear all this through
a slow, reluctant waking,
gray threads of
dream-fragments tearing away.
Then comes
the soft gray blue
of morning : 6:00 a.m.
Just like the clock dial said.
(first pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, 2017)
Red Amid Gold
SENSATIONS AND IMAGINATIONS
Sometimes I feel a soft butterfly-shadow and a darting
flicker of light with a movement that precedes the shadow
by a precisive moment.
A flash of color wavers by and enters a waiting mirror
and I feel the compulsion to enter the same mirror as the
shadow.
A brief flash of color overtakes the shadow and I feel a
change of being as if I am becoming the butterfly that
evolves.
I am both frightened and enchanted, for there is no time
in the mirror, and I do not know how to follow the van-
ishing butterfly.
Shadow Depth
THE DAY FORETOLD
This morning the moon rose too high in the west—
round and parchment white—yet shining bright
upon the windowsill, filling the pulled-back curtain;
it was early—and I had risen into the too-dark
earliness to find the moon staring down like that;
and I stared back—filled with its silver light—
my hand on the sill transparent and cold and
bright with energy—my heart felt like parchment.
Dared I touch this day with anything but love?
(first pub. in Hidden Oak, 2004)
___________________
COLORANT
to write in the color of now is to avoid the word
at the edge of confusion—calling attention to
itself because it is there
like the need of something vague
like the passing of this moment
select from the center—is it a swirl or a separa-
tion—there must be the realization of color—
an oh, and a where—to write in the color of now
The Story of Five Yellow Leaves
LULLABY
After Young Moe by Paul Klee, 1938
A small bird on a field of temporary music emerges in a
composition of light which is being painted on a canvas
with a child who watches from a small distance to match
the scope of the bird that did not know of its existence.
Soon everything will fall into place, but for now, silence
chooses a color out of the spectrum to wear against twi-
light, which is a time for calling forth the fears of the day.
The sharp voice of the mother is calling the child, but the
child wants to stay in the blend of time and the perfectly
balanced moment before the bird begins to sing its final
song of time’s duration.
This is the moment when everything fits the intention and
the direction that every force of thought and action has
caused. The hidden child closes its eyes and listens. The
next moment remembers none of it.
____________________
THE LONELY RAIN
What a lonely rain. What a strange night for a lonely rain
to fall. What a sad shame that the lonely night has to end
under such a lonely rain.
What a cold sight to see two leaning people under a strug-
gling umbrella—leaning into and away from the cold sad
rain—pressing hurriedly together as they cross the rain-
dimensioned street and disappear into a flattened doorway
where the white moon casts an image that reflects and then
shreds back against the night.
What a slow-moving night: the rainy window, the cold
room, the remnants of beauty still on their faces as they lie
together—almost in love—listening to the rain.
They Tell a Story
CHOOSING THE DANCE
Now you must do a slow dance
upon your reflection—
a slow dance for the rain
that has left such a shimmering.
Or you must stand in perfect stillness
and look down into your image
that waits for you to step back
to realize how important
such choosing is.
You could lose yourself here—
somehow release
one self
from the other
by a mere decision
of thought that is not yet
ready to give up such power.
You must make
the first disconnection.
But even then
you hesitate at the choice
between resistance and surrender.
So you choose the dance,
and your sad reflection must dance, too.
__________________
INNERMOST
I would be one with this loneliness
here in this center which can go each way
here where all things coexist—
the light flaring down and the darkness filling
I would be the light as it disperses
and be the shadow touched by the dispersing light
I would be the stillness that watches this
and be the motion that results
Here is a sleeping bird with a silver wing
and a wing of dark.
I want to fall asleep in its eye
and be where it is—
alive and alone
in this perfect center
be no threat
and have no foe
take in a long deep breath and let out a quiet sigh
the way I do when I turn from din to quiet music.
Grate
ONE DAY TO THE NEXT WITHOUT DYING
After Spirit of Structure by Edward J. Lavin, S. J.
Go to the barren place—the one with old skies and
nothing for miles but that one white building
standing weather-beaten in dying light.
Go toward it from your little distance—it trembles
in the constant friction of the air, its foundation
bleeding into the ground.
Take your time. You will be there for a long while.
The landscape is in pieces. Its colors smear and
lose perfection, no longer what they represent.
The sky is heavy and may fall, though bits of green
encourage you, there is always a white sweep
of shadow to melt into the dark.
Go into the white building and sleep—and when
you dream, remember the dream—and the
next morning, answer all its questions.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
COLOR SWARM
—Joyce Odam
It is always a surprise to find
a swarm of colors come alive—
become
butterflies
blendings
and separations—
become beings of a new creation.
_____________________
Many thanks to Joyce Odam for today’s fine poetry and flashy autumn colors, celebrating our Seed of the Week: Fall Colors. Our new Seed of the Week is Household Pals. This is a broader subject than one might think; it could include SnakePals (the poets you see on Medusa’s Kitchen), rodents, insects, pets, or interloping human malingerers. Be creative about what you see in your digs, and send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from.
And I dare you to work “interloping human malingerers” into a poem.
Got questions about copyright law? Cal. Lawyers for the Arts will hold a workshop this evening from 6:30-8pm at The Urban Hive in Sacramento. Info/reg at www.showclix.com/event/cla-copyright-sacramento-9-26-18/. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
Cynthia Linville writes: “convergence: an online journal of poetry and art is currently in transition, and we have decided to stop accepting submissions for a while. My personal focus has changed. I've moved further north to be closer to my parents who need a little more help these days.” Thanks for all the work by Cynthia and the other editors so far, and here’s hoping convergence will be back with us soon!
—Medusa
Young Moe by Paul Klee, 1938
Celebrate the poetry of lines and spaces!
For more about “Young Moe”, go to
Celebrate the poetry of lines and spaces!
For more about “Young Moe”, go to
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