Filigree
—Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
ENVIRONMENTAL
The fake owl sits on the service station over-
hang above the gas pumps on the corner of
Franklin and Florin watching the city birds
that would test his imposing presence—he
never ruffles a painted feather or closes his
fierce eyes from the daunting position . . .
—o—
Underneath the bird-chattering tree, a large
Calico cat leisurely inspects his paw, seems
unperturbed at the ruckus above him, looks
anywhere but toward the noise and stations
himself against the old leaning fence
in the morning sunshine . . .
—o—
Perched on the long telephone wire going to
the house, one tiny red-crested bird lets go a
burst of song so beautiful it seems too much
for its size . . . it waits a listening moment . . .
then sings again before flitting to another
wire, all but invisible against the sunset
sky stretched out in the long smoky
strands of red behind him . . .
The fake owl sits on the service station over-
hang above the gas pumps on the corner of
Franklin and Florin watching the city birds
that would test his imposing presence—he
never ruffles a painted feather or closes his
fierce eyes from the daunting position . . .
—o—
Underneath the bird-chattering tree, a large
Calico cat leisurely inspects his paw, seems
unperturbed at the ruckus above him, looks
anywhere but toward the noise and stations
himself against the old leaning fence
in the morning sunshine . . .
—o—
Perched on the long telephone wire going to
the house, one tiny red-crested bird lets go a
burst of song so beautiful it seems too much
for its size . . . it waits a listening moment . . .
then sings again before flitting to another
wire, all but invisible against the sunset
sky stretched out in the long smoky
strands of red behind him . . .
Fragile
WHERE THE RIVER FLOWS
how deep the red sunset water
how steep the blue images of trees
how smoky the sky in the reddened water
how blind the place where the river turns
and you want to turn there
though the blue trees shudder
and the red goes deeper
and the slippery bank is too dark to grasp
but you turn with the water
the redness folds you in
and the clouds continue
and even then you want to grasp at texture
The Fringe of Shadow
SISTERS OF MEMORY
slithering
serpentine
dancers made of pattern
moving like smoke
after flame is smothered
featureless dancers
weaving together as one
as from a subtle breeze
suggesting harmony
arms waving effortlessly
toward each other
directive and directed
soothing themselves
in uniformity of movement
fastened to a root of memory
that will not release them
no matter how they reach
upward and upward tirelessly
slithering
serpentine
dancers made of pattern
moving like smoke
after flame is smothered
featureless dancers
weaving together as one
as from a subtle breeze
suggesting harmony
arms waving effortlessly
toward each other
directive and directed
soothing themselves
in uniformity of movement
fastened to a root of memory
that will not release them
no matter how they reach
upward and upward tirelessly
Wound
BLUE SONG COLLAGE
After Man in Blue by Francis Bacon
When he sings, he sings blue,
sings to the black piano,
sings to the hushed audience
of his memory.
Soft smoky light swirls through him
and away—
diffuses into
the surrounding darkness.
Beyond the aura of his tragic face,
the stale dark listens—
leaning forward with admiration.
He braces for the applause.
(prev. pub. in Red Owl, 2006)
After Man in Blue by Francis Bacon
When he sings, he sings blue,
sings to the black piano,
sings to the hushed audience
of his memory.
Soft smoky light swirls through him
and away—
diffuses into
the surrounding darkness.
Beyond the aura of his tragic face,
the stale dark listens—
leaning forward with admiration.
He braces for the applause.
(prev. pub. in Red Owl, 2006)
Much A-Do
STEPPING UP TO THE MICROPHONE
another sad singer
steps up to another microphone
and stands there amid the music
and sings his song
and sings his song
and sings his song
to the microphone
and the smoky spotlight
turning on for him
he stands there
in the lonely light
his face so tense and haunting
and the music knows
all that he sings
and harmonizes back to him
the musicians all but hidden
in the background of it all
the musicians hidden
while the lonely singer stands in the smoky light
and sings his song
(prev. pub. in Nanny Fanny)
another sad singer
steps up to another microphone
and stands there amid the music
and sings his song
and sings his song
and sings his song
to the microphone
and the smoky spotlight
turning on for him
he stands there
in the lonely light
his face so tense and haunting
and the music knows
all that he sings
and harmonizes back to him
the musicians all but hidden
in the background of it all
the musicians hidden
while the lonely singer stands in the smoky light
and sings his song
(prev. pub. in Nanny Fanny)
Stem
LADIES IN VEILS, THE OLD MOVIES
Ah, the old movies, mysterious ladies with
smoky eyes and black lips, usually with
tears building behind the veils, and secrets
in their secret eyes. Tragic ladies—ever at
risk—ever in need of rescue—the hero who
would always blur into being, as undeci-
pherable and fascinating as were the ladies
behind the veils—the shadow-heavy veils
always symbolic at the point of peril—true
danger, or trap—always with more exhaus-
tions of dilemma to fathom through with
mood music. Deeper and deeper the drama
if the hero could not solve, in time, the in-
tricate tribulations of the script—the come-
dies of life with their fatal predictions. Happy
endings were never for ladies with veils who
were to stay mysterious to the meaning of end-
less scriptwriters who wrote them into their
predicaments. And who was to say if the cliff-
hanger movies were true to reality, or only
fantasy—the preconceiving, plot-making,
writers of movies to their guessed-at endings.
Ah, the old movies, mysterious ladies with
smoky eyes and black lips, usually with
tears building behind the veils, and secrets
in their secret eyes. Tragic ladies—ever at
risk—ever in need of rescue—the hero who
would always blur into being, as undeci-
pherable and fascinating as were the ladies
behind the veils—the shadow-heavy veils
always symbolic at the point of peril—true
danger, or trap—always with more exhaus-
tions of dilemma to fathom through with
mood music. Deeper and deeper the drama
if the hero could not solve, in time, the in-
tricate tribulations of the script—the come-
dies of life with their fatal predictions. Happy
endings were never for ladies with veils who
were to stay mysterious to the meaning of end-
less scriptwriters who wrote them into their
predicaments. And who was to say if the cliff-
hanger movies were true to reality, or only
fantasy—the preconceiving, plot-making,
writers of movies to their guessed-at endings.
Shining Through
PLIABLE AS I WAS
In haze-light—
reflected from my years—
under dark time,
always within me,
flitting about my dying
as if in a hurry—
golden, golden, everywhere,
I entered, believing,
I was a child—
as young as envy,
climbing the very light,
I was demanding, everyone loved me.
I played under smiles all my life,
they closed above me, frozen,
they were not mine—
long whispering words
lisping everywhere—
asking around me—
but never directly at me—,
as if I was never there.
In haze-light—
reflected from my years—
under dark time,
always within me,
flitting about my dying
as if in a hurry—
golden, golden, everywhere,
I entered, believing,
I was a child—
as young as envy,
climbing the very light,
I was demanding, everyone loved me.
I played under smiles all my life,
they closed above me, frozen,
they were not mine—
long whispering words
lisping everywhere—
asking around me—
but never directly at me—,
as if I was never there.
Tried and True
SMOKE AND FIRE
We squander the light with our dull eyes.
How can we bear the result of shadows?
Shadows are part of the ruse : you at the window
with your cape on—with your spread arms.
Arms hold and carry, now convey weariness
by hanging limp—have their own messages.
Messages rustle—they whisper—they nag,
so smug with being right, what they believe.
Belief is where there’s smoke, there’s fire—
fire of truth—in the smoky air of the believers.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
MONTAGE
—Joyce Odam
All night, the unseen mockingbird
shared its lyric singing,
making sleep impossible.
All night, the slow red moon
rose through the smoky sky
and became a white moon.
Now morning bristles
with raucous bursts
from the numerous crows.
______________________
Here we are with another welcome visit from Joyce Odam, smoke and shadows lurking around every corner in keeping with our Seed of the Week, “Smoke”. Joyce’s “Montage” is a Triversen, which means it does this:
TRIVERSEN: Triple verse sentence of variable accents—each stanza is one complete sentence, broken into three phrases: three lines of three phrases equals one stanza.
If you’re interested in forms, please check out the Kitchen every Friday to watch (and maybe play along with) the Form Fiddlers! Joyce is a frequent contributor.
Our new Seed of the Week is “Escape”. 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.
For more about Francis Bacon’s painting series, Man in Blue, go to www.dailyartmagazine.com/man-in-blue-by-francis-bacon/.
______________________
—Medusa
We squander the light with our dull eyes.
How can we bear the result of shadows?
Shadows are part of the ruse : you at the window
with your cape on—with your spread arms.
Arms hold and carry, now convey weariness
by hanging limp—have their own messages.
Messages rustle—they whisper—they nag,
so smug with being right, what they believe.
Belief is where there’s smoke, there’s fire—
fire of truth—in the smoky air of the believers.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
MONTAGE
—Joyce Odam
All night, the unseen mockingbird
shared its lyric singing,
making sleep impossible.
All night, the slow red moon
rose through the smoky sky
and became a white moon.
Now morning bristles
with raucous bursts
from the numerous crows.
______________________
Here we are with another welcome visit from Joyce Odam, smoke and shadows lurking around every corner in keeping with our Seed of the Week, “Smoke”. Joyce’s “Montage” is a Triversen, which means it does this:
TRIVERSEN: Triple verse sentence of variable accents—each stanza is one complete sentence, broken into three phrases: three lines of three phrases equals one stanza.
If you’re interested in forms, please check out the Kitchen every Friday to watch (and maybe play along with) the Form Fiddlers! Joyce is a frequent contributor.
Our new Seed of the Week is “Escape”. 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.
For more about Francis Bacon’s painting series, Man in Blue, go to www.dailyartmagazine.com/man-in-blue-by-francis-bacon/.
______________________
—Medusa
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.
