Love For Ever And For Always
—Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
SWEET JAZZ
I’m driving along
to sweet jazz.
Sweet Mama!
Driving along.
Sweet jazz on my radio.
Sweet Mama . . .
How you loved to drive
your little car . . .
all those years and miles ago.
You had no radio.
I’m driving along
to sweet jazz.
Sweet Mama!
Driving along.
Sweet jazz on my radio.
Sweet Mama . . .
How you loved to drive
your little car . . .
all those years and miles ago.
You had no radio.
A Little Light in the Room
BIG MAMA LAUGHS
Big Mama laughs
and points her hand.
Her pretty laughter
shoves the air between.
Her flirting eyes
grab everyone.
Her dangling ear rings
dance and shine.
Her dark-blue-satin coat
shudders and clings.
She laughs
and laughs.
She is a happy woman
all the time.
(prev. pub. in Urban Voices That Matter, 1994
and Profiles, Mini-Chap, 1998)
Big Mama laughs
and points her hand.
Her pretty laughter
shoves the air between.
Her flirting eyes
grab everyone.
Her dangling ear rings
dance and shine.
Her dark-blue-satin coat
shudders and clings.
She laughs
and laughs.
She is a happy woman
all the time.
(prev. pub. in Urban Voices That Matter, 1994
and Profiles, Mini-Chap, 1998)
In the Memories
MY MOTHER WITH HENNAED HAIR
My
mother
with hennaed hair—
her brown eyes shining
because she was young and flirty—
and
how
I
became
her
when staring into her eyes
in her young photograph and I
wanted henna in my hair too . . .
Mother Dreaming
MY MOTHERS
my mothers prey in the shadows
which is the dream . . .
of which remembrance . . .
I cannot love them both
my mirror has two sides
one empty
one mother hides there, waiting
for me to enter
the glass holds
no deception
my real mother
holds her steady look
one mother
pulls me through the glass
I do not know
which one . . .
__________________
MOTHER EXPERIENCE
sitting over there
smiling indulgently
her Mona Lisa mouth
not saying a word
letting us talk about
our embarrassments
and our mistakes
old Mother Experience
with her held advice
and smug—so smug
with her experience
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen)
my mothers prey in the shadows
which is the dream . . .
of which remembrance . . .
I cannot love them both
my mirror has two sides
one empty
one mother hides there, waiting
for me to enter
the glass holds
no deception
my real mother
holds her steady look
one mother
pulls me through the glass
I do not know
which one . . .
__________________
MOTHER EXPERIENCE
sitting over there
smiling indulgently
her Mona Lisa mouth
not saying a word
letting us talk about
our embarrassments
and our mistakes
old Mother Experience
with her held advice
and smug—so smug
with her experience
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen)
In the Lack of Tears
TRAVELING WITH MAMA
The grief is hunch-hearted in my dark.
The grief is hunch-hearted in my dark.
My eyes are stones.
How they hurt in the lack of tears.
How my silence weeps
reaching for its peak.
No midnight or dawn can
make me speak its word.
I am mute.
I am lost upon myself like a folded map.
I cannot travel here.
The road is finished
and the little inn is closed.
My patient car is waiting to unlock.
How bright its wheels will be
when we embark
because we must, again
because we will, again.
The travel signs have lied.
They all end here.
The nighttime noises creak
and scrape and rustle
while the windshield stars deflect
and burn my cold.
How they hurt in the lack of tears.
How my silence weeps
reaching for its peak.
No midnight or dawn can
make me speak its word.
I am mute.
I am lost upon myself like a folded map.
I cannot travel here.
The road is finished
and the little inn is closed.
My patient car is waiting to unlock.
How bright its wheels will be
when we embark
because we must, again
because we will, again.
The travel signs have lied.
They all end here.
The nighttime noises creak
and scrape and rustle
while the windshield stars deflect
and burn my cold.
SHADOW CONNECTION
After The Exile of Sophia, Daughter of
the Father of Light by Daniel Koubel
She is becoming
who we dream her to be,
one who is turning into glowing blue light.
The darkness
comforts her, holds her
in a stillness that allows no breathing.
We call her Mother
so she will recognize us—
comfort us—tell us an old sky-story.
She is only there for
as long as our imagination holds
her there. Why she allows this is not clear.
She is powerless to move until
we undo the shadows and release her.
We’ve not yet learned why we still need her.
After The Exile of Sophia, Daughter of
the Father of Light by Daniel Koubel
She is becoming
who we dream her to be,
one who is turning into glowing blue light.
The darkness
comforts her, holds her
in a stillness that allows no breathing.
We call her Mother
so she will recognize us—
comfort us—tell us an old sky-story.
She is only there for
as long as our imagination holds
her there. Why she allows this is not clear.
She is powerless to move until
we undo the shadows and release her.
We’ve not yet learned why we still need her.
The Way of Things
MOTHER’S EDGE
I take the edge along with me
wherever I go...
Like a ruler;
like a lifeline in a world made of snow;
I take it for caution and what I almost know
of boundary.
I take it to remind me of where I left off
and where I began.
I take it as something not to step over,
or off of.
I need this edge to prevent me from the fall
that flaunts its vertigo.
I know my dimension.
Mother named it so.
She said, “Take this edge through life,
as a peripheral.”
She took it from her tiny balcony of warning
and stood there—edgeless, waving.
And I still have it with me:
Mother’s edge—still holding, guarding.
I take the edge along with me
wherever I go...
Like a ruler;
like a lifeline in a world made of snow;
I take it for caution and what I almost know
of boundary.
I take it to remind me of where I left off
and where I began.
I take it as something not to step over,
or off of.
I need this edge to prevent me from the fall
that flaunts its vertigo.
I know my dimension.
Mother named it so.
She said, “Take this edge through life,
as a peripheral.”
She took it from her tiny balcony of warning
and stood there—edgeless, waving.
And I still have it with me:
Mother’s edge—still holding, guarding.
For the Blues
ALL THE NEWS IS GOOD
Mama, all the news is good.
You were right to be
an optimist.
I have filled the little cup
with life
and I am here
with all my blues
sewn to a morning dress.
I sit at the window
and watch the birds
who know me now.
Their shifting songs
wash over me in happiness.
I say to you,
I love those birds.
My dress of blues
fits me like words.
I think I know your secret now.
God bless.
(prev. pub. in One Dog Press, 1997)
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
MAMA, I HAVE A CAT
—Joyce Odam
We could be sisters now, my Mama;
we are the same age now.
I sit here and talk to you in your picture—
the same age now—grinning at each other.
____________________
Thank you to Joyce Odam for her songs about mothers today, our recent "Mothers" Seed of the Week—sorrowful, joyful, and in-between! Our new Seed of the Week is Wobbly Legs. 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
Mama, all the news is good.
You were right to be
an optimist.
I have filled the little cup
with life
and I am here
with all my blues
sewn to a morning dress.
I sit at the window
and watch the birds
who know me now.
Their shifting songs
wash over me in happiness.
I say to you,
I love those birds.
My dress of blues
fits me like words.
I think I know your secret now.
God bless.
(prev. pub. in One Dog Press, 1997)
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
MAMA, I HAVE A CAT
—Joyce Odam
We could be sisters now, my Mama;
we are the same age now.
I sit here and talk to you in your picture—
the same age now—grinning at each other.
____________________
Thank you to Joyce Odam for her songs about mothers today, our recent "Mothers" Seed of the Week—sorrowful, joyful, and in-between! Our new Seed of the Week is Wobbly Legs. 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
—Public Domain Photo
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.
