The Moon is a Clock

 

Only Your Perfection

—Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

 

LATE

Reams of light unfolding over the landscape—the
long way to anywhere, the time it takes to get there,

the silence in the car, the way time seems unreal when
you are obliviously lost—the billboards whizzing by—

unimportant in the dusk.  Why silence now?  There is
so much to say, the way direction holds true, no matter

which way you enter it—the belief in destination—
in safe travel—in never having to stop for relief or

to refuel.  The moon is a clock.  It moves across the
ever-shifting night.  It hides and reappears.  It grows

until it fills the new horizon and bursts open, spilling
its last illumination . . . oh, that can’t be real . . . this

is only a slow trip home in an old car—the way
familiar—the whole world changed—the night air

coming in the window—only a few last headlights
coming by from the other direction.


(prev. pub. in Curbside Review, 2003)

 

 

 

Days Pulled Into Night

 

 

LIGHT, SLIPPING IN

Something moving at an edge,
something without a shape
or sound,

something known and unknown—
a vague insinuation—as an old song
or older memory.

You hesitate,
lest it remember you.
The moment shifts.

Light alters, thins, extends,
shape reaffirms as substance,
offers its touch.

You hesitate—
what you remember
is not love,

is more
like loss—
neither wanted.

Light finds the mirror—
enters,
turns,

and lets itself be known.
What else can you do
but welcome it.


(after “Impressionist” by Taylor Graham,
but not following the syllabic structure)

 

 

 

Shadow's Edge

 

LIVING IN THE VALLEY

Here is the last light
saved from day—
saved past a shadow edge.

And here is the emptiness
from a space
so full it seems forever lent.

But slow is slow, and forever
meant : clarity forever,
if the day does not end.

And here is where the story
does not change :
there is a mountain that holds

everything from view,
and trees that shrink from distance
as though distance can’t be crossed.

And we live here,—
in this valley,
where the last light settles

in a little pool,
and the moon lives there,
giving us hope,

for there—
a few stars shine
as deep and brightly as they can

 

 

 

Something Like A Cry

 

now the world
    Ice Splitting, Baikal Lake

is split
it is tearing in half at the long seam of the ocean

and beneath the waterfall of the mountain.
I hear it crack in the silence of

inattention. 

something like a soft cry

or a low
moan

somewhere between
hell and heaven

a width children could
still jump across

I see the shadow
widening

and how deep
it goes

deeper by the years
and decades

sunsets echo it—
strange clue—

formations cross the sky
sky song asking why

 

 

 

Timeless

 

LOW WINDOW LIGHT

The window used to hold her there,
standing and watching the day change,
her eyes holding the vague eye of distance.

However far it was, she was patient.
The room darkened behind her, the window
glinted, caught the last of the sunlight.

She grew timeless then. The waiting
never ended. The patience understood
There was never any end to the story.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/19/15)

 

 

 

 Against the Dark

 

NEVER AS NOW

What’s never is now, what’s the use
of hiding—it will out, as in will in.

Heavy with doubt, we re-assess.
Excuses—ever what we use.

Why confuse this
with fact.

Fact is an act.
Act 1.  Done.

Pure nonsense?
How pure?

Mix this with that
and drink slowly.

In a hurry, she asks?
Here is only here.

Elsewhere is nowhere.
Here is still here—period.

Spinning. A gold child in the center of
her spin. Look. She is happy. She can spin.

 

 

 

Artistry

 

Today’s LittleNip:

HOW WELL I KNOW THE MUSE NOW
—Joyce Odam

in our old
hide-&-seek game,
taking years
to play,
efforts to make,
then, obedient to her,
trying to catch all
those words she flashes through the mind

_______________________           

Our thanks to Joyce Odam today (and her daughter, Robin Gale Odam), for today’s musings on Light, Joy, and Hope—our Seed of the Week with which we head for 2022, The Year of the Tiger.

Our new Seed of the Week is “The New Normal”. 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

 

 

 

 Crossing Distance

—Photo by Joyce Odam



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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