Waltzing With Moths

 

Faith Blossoms

—Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

 

THE STAND-OFF
After Turkeys in the Snow  (Painting by Liz Hawkes-de Noird)

1.

We know how the turkeys connect their voices when we
gobble out to them and they gobble back in a racket-
challenge of sound, just milling around and waiting for
us to challenge them again/ and again/ and again/ till we
grow tired of losing the game—and just stand there—and
they just stand there—sizing each other up . . .

2.

Again the turkeys, in the snow, not straw. I wonder what
they think about : which follows, which leads, so aimless,
so unlovable, though they bobble in closeness and tremble
apart by turn, playing look-out, bobbing their heads up at
any disturbance. Curious fellows. So innocent of treachery.
In the snow, in the season of the winter . . .

3.

To make this a triptych : I hear they run wild in certain
neighborhoods where they have built up their courage—
still gobbling in unison to frighten anything that startles
them. Never engage them in any sort of discourse if this
bothers you. They are like clumsy pets, annoyances, un-
approachable. Just ignore them.  Maybe they’ll go away.

 

 

 

Illumination

 

 

 

WHITE MOON IN OCTOBER

Last night I saw the moon—
stark and distant—high above the trees

accustomed to finding it
low in their branches, I noticed the sky :

a strange blue,
gray blue—and cloudless,

a chill in the air,
the night gone still after four days of wind

that tore
and tore itself through everything,

but last night—
going out to take the trash to the curb—

I saw the chalk-white,
faceless moon; it seemed so far and lonely

in the static sky—
I simply stopped and stared.

 

 

 

Emphasis

 

 

SLOW WINTER

This winter starts slowly—season of reluctance—
almost December. Too many days almost warm,
night almost cold in the countdown of the year.
       
A mockingbird has taken over the pear tree, watching
from the very tip. I watched him pecking at the last
stubborn pear a few days ago.
       
The leaves are mostly gone from the deciduous trees,
a pile of leaves is caught in a corner by the front door.
They rattle underfoot.
       
Two wind-storms have come through, knocking down
trees and fences. I listened to the old, familiar howling
corners of my house.

Each year’s end feels the same. A restlessness. Some
healing needed. The strange links of years—so many
different places. Where? forgotten. When? forgotten.

Stages of time like stepping stones in fog. Each year
turning into the next. The gray season will be next,  
days and days of it. Long enough to start the edges
breaking around me.

Such winters are best spent alone—in the self—the silent,
crying self. The short days hurry. The long nights sleep.
Either way is what you time—to follow the clock—how
it measures for you, as if you needed to know.
       
And now winter says be patient, let me work as I work,
summer dies into autumn; autumn slips into fall
and has no way out. Slow winter has hold.
Winter comes when it is ready.

_____________________

WHITE UMBRELLAS IN THE SNOW
Kennin-ji Temple. Kyoto Japan. Modi Galili

What kind of winter needs a white umbrella,
except for the thrill of snow,
silently falling—

except
for the trail of shoes
making long white traces in the snow.

Three walkers,
costumed blue, appear under
the relevance of the white umbrellas.

Maybe
a dance—a ritual—
a planned performance, wrong season.

The world is wide—the stage a
landscape of pure white distance—the
white umbrellas vanishing into more white.

 

 

 

Trust

 

 

THE TUMBLEWEED AT CHRISTMAS
“To move a tumbleweed, you must push it,
preferably with wind.” —Dale Odam

He has lashed and staked
the tumbleweed to the yard,
a gift for his lady of whims
who next year would have one
as her Xmas tree.

But now the big green
wild one
is a prisoner for her delight.
She looks at it through her window,
shows it to her friends,
watches the wind try to roll it free,
watches the rain try
to penetrate its brambleness.

Perhaps it breathes more brokenly
than most, having exhausted
all its one direction.
At least it knows which way
it cannot go.

           
(prev. pub. in Folio, Winter, 1974)

 

 

 

Night-Blooming Leaf

 

AN OLD CHRISTMAS

It was in this forest of souls—the green light covering
the ground through the artificial trees in the pale gold
sunlight of winter, or maybe the bad lighting from

a stage where performers paced as they spoke their
lines. Someone in the audience coughed—or just
another ghost, the old theater being closed, and only

the original memories insisting what was so. Some-
one with a broom kept sweeping up the brown leaves
of the green forest, the hero riding away on his horse,

and the maiden turning backward into the store window
display of mannequins, so lifelike they welcomed her
into their midst. Would she ever look back with regret?

Would she pine away while a spotlight tried to find her?
The curtain was stuck open so the play could never end,
the scenery growing dustier as the years faded and there

was no one left to cry over the sad ending, though the
hero and the maiden were the last ones watching the
play from the back row—still caught up in the drama
and refusing to go home—it was in this forest of souls.

 

 

 

Distance Traveled

 

DECEMBER WITH SNOW     

All along the office hall
white snowflakes in a snowy row
in winding darkness dimly
in the pending dark

of afternoon trying to make
a spark of Christmas in the gloom
that flows from room to room
of offices where end-of-day

depression-edges share
bah-humbugs, more the theme,
halfhearted, or extreme,
with slow attention to the clock,

with Christmas shopping talk
and paper snowflakes all around
and here and there a whistle or a hum
of some uncovered Christmas Carol.

 

 

 

Validation

 

When Christmas Day Bloomed,

bright as faith…  quiet at last…
informed at last… the way
already paved and trod—
I'll not inflict a rhyme
to that—too trite,  
too—easy,
the day
the way
to hear
no sound
in the air that
trembled with your
listening—your quiet
breathing as you listened
to your thoughts. All this I say,
to you, to me, to any in the reach :
Oh beautiful…Oh perfect morning…

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

SNOW WALTZ
—Joyce Odam

They are the perfect followers of each other. It is a
waltz. Outside it is snowing. They leave the doors
open. They praise the music for its permission. Even
their cats share an old preferred opinion.

They whirl and catch smug glances of themselves
in the heavy mirror with its gold veins. And never
are they breathless—winter has a long way to go.
Their cats waltz with moths in dreams of their own.

_____________________

Last week I suggested we start trying to work up the Christmas spirit early, since we’ve had such a bad year, and I even suggested “Christmas List” for the Seed of the Week.  Joyce has sent some thoughts about Christmas that, although conflicted, do end up on a wondrous note. Thank you, Joyce! We especially need that this year—a little extra wonder on the Kitchen table…..

Joyce is very, very skilled with forms (she had a column about forms in the old Rattlesnake Review), so watch for her to pop up most weeks in Medusa’s Form Fiddlers’ Friday feature.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Things I should be thankful for but am not”. Like dental floss. Passwords. Taxes. 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.

______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

“Stages of time like stepping stones in fog…”
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy 

of James Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

LittleSnake could use
a white umbrella…