After Night’s Blue Rain
—Poetry, Photos, Original Art 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.
(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, 2017
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/9/14)
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.
(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, 2017
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/9/14)
A Whisper of Language
MORNING PROCEDURE
The cat has been stroked
and has left my lap to the
lamplight in the dark morning.
Hum of early traffic begins . . .
no . . . it is only an airplane drone
—gone now.
My pencil scrapes the page with a
strange sound—whisper of language
a pen does not know . . .
A thin whine in some far background
says, Here . . . Now . . .
in my ear only.
Shall I rise to the dark morning
and put all this away,
unfinished?
Now that morning no longer
belongs to me,
I am distracted.
But the words still compel me with their
illegible scribble; time is going,
and they accuse me.
Where is the comfort-cat now—
that silent shadow
of casual existence?
THE SUNNY WINDOW OF
THE DARK CAFÉ
Ghosts in costume sit
at the sunny window
of the dark café.
They will not move
from the sunshine.
They are cold.
I think they want
to pray for
new beginnings.
One of them
is at the jukebox
reading the names of music.
Another hides his face
in the shadow he has brought
beneath his hat.
I will not stay.
I will go through the door
and enter the brimming day.
I will not glance
at them
as I pass their table.
(prev. pub. in Poetry Depth Quarterly, 2002)
Young Herdsmen with Cows
—Painting by Aelbert Cuyp
THE STRANGE AND BEAUTIFUL COWS
After Young Herdsmen with Cows
by Aelbert Cuyp (Dutch, 1620-1691)
The strange and beautiful cows who are so
tranquil, with their slow eyes, gazing at everything,
and nothing, lying so gracefully among each other
on the hillsides, and in the fields—watching the
busy traffic pass, or just each other—or just stand
staring—into the wide persistence of the sky.
But I am so taken by the absolute serenity of the
cows—how the sun shines on their hides, giving
them such a sheen—the absolute quiet that I feel of
their surroundings—that I want to stop my car and
walk out among them. I want to feel what they feel :
their complete, indifferent laziness, no haste or dread,
nothing to get caught up in, just watching the day’s
clouds mimic their own shadows over the ground—
that I, too, want to gaze into the uncluttered distance
and give no troubled thought to anything.
The Road Taken
SILK, DANCING
“ . . . how sweetly flows
that liquefaction of her clothes.”
—Robert Herrick
When I look at her, shrouded in white,
writhing, not dancing,
I ache to know her,
help her pray,
help her say to herself
what she needs to say,
insensitive—sensitive—
wearing a mask of light,
forming her movements
without memory of them.
What is that cloth
that she makes shine,
falling and falling in folds
with such exquisite agony?
How does she make this equate
to what belongs to life?
She is the emulation—
the abandoned—the found—
not knowing what to do but surrender
and find exhaustion as relief.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/15/15)
SPILLING
she sits by the yellow roses
she sits by the yellow bananas
she sits leaning against the sunlit wall
her hair is pale yellow
it shines with electricity
her bracelet makes bright flashings
as she talks and gestures
her full cup with the spoon in it
(prev. pub. in The Wormwood Review
and Song for A New Beginning, 1993)
In Twilight
THE FADING
After Sunlight on the Road, Pontoise, 1874
by Camille Pissaro (1830-1903)
This is the hour when everything recedes, the woman
walking into dense, unmoving trees—the path dissolv-
ing into easy twilight, the blue horse turning into mist.
The rider enters his silence; the woman echoes this.
What has this to do with love, there is only the slow
obliteration of detail.
The dark will claim them—the path be empty—the
trees enclose the woman—and from a distance, the
horse will neigh.
What has this to do with night, the incidental way they
crossed paths and parted in the tremulous hour when
everything recedes with nothing to say.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
THE MOCKINGBIRDS, SINGING
—Joyce Odam
at night,
through the night
into morning—
to the listening
of the bothered,
the receptive—
some kind of mystery—
the birds . . . the listening . . .
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/31/13)
___________________
Joyce Odam brings us the shimmering sunshine this morning, celebrating our Seed of the Week: Sunlight. Wonderful comfort-cat, untroubled cows, ghosts in the café...
Hey—it’s two-twenty-two, twenty-two! As my husband says, “Free-KEY”. (At least it’s not 200 years from now…) There was a time when we celebrated 2/22 as George Washington’s birthday~
Anyway, Our new Seed of the Week is “Beer Cans and Paper Plates”. Are we talking about a wild party, or the garbage dump? The morning after, or the day before? A messy house or a messy planet? The following message comes from Darien Recycling Center in Darien, GA: “PLEASE DO NOT PUT IN SINGLE STREAM RECYCLING: paper plates, cups, bowls; plastic bags & other plastic film; shredded paper; nitrile gloves; shipping envelopes unless they are 100% paper; beer caps; art projects w/macaroni, candy hearts or anything edible!” See what you can do with this SOW, and then 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
—Painting by Camille Pissaro
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.
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
