Long-Awaited January
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Robin Gale Odam
ABOUT DECEMBER
—Joyce Odam
December comes and goes,
an old switch of time that flows
and flows down winter hills, abrupt
and seasonal—and changes change
again, the sky already rousing wind
and rain, for pleasure or the wish
for the long-awaited January—for its
new beginnings.
__________________
THE EARLY DAWN IN WINTER
—Joyce Odam
The darkness spins.
Breaks on a sound. Nothing to fear.
The sound is near—continuous.
There's nothing in the way,
the way is clear. If silence owns
the dark, the dark must disappear.
The dream is lost in turbulence.
There's danger in the dream.
Nothing is clear.
The sound must die,
there's only room for dawn.
Sleep tries to interfere. The night
is everywhere—in some call—
some silent ear—all in a moment
time pulls away—into another now.
The sleeper turns to light,
a whirl of sound
echoes away.
—Joyce Odam
December comes and goes,
an old switch of time that flows
and flows down winter hills, abrupt
and seasonal—and changes change
again, the sky already rousing wind
and rain, for pleasure or the wish
for the long-awaited January—for its
new beginnings.
__________________
THE EARLY DAWN IN WINTER
—Joyce Odam
The darkness spins.
Breaks on a sound. Nothing to fear.
The sound is near—continuous.
There's nothing in the way,
the way is clear. If silence owns
the dark, the dark must disappear.
The dream is lost in turbulence.
There's danger in the dream.
Nothing is clear.
The sound must die,
there's only room for dawn.
Sleep tries to interfere. The night
is everywhere—in some call—
some silent ear—all in a moment
time pulls away—into another now.
The sleeper turns to light,
a whirl of sound
echoes away.
Peace Be My Region
LIVING WITH LIFE
—Joyce Odam
There is many a darkness. Woe is woe.
Hate and love, and what a show, woe after
woe. The world is wanting, innocent and free.
Gullible, no truth to praise—follow
me, I am the warner—self and you, in
your own care, you and we—the first fall.
There is only midnight—how you love and
fear the dark—dark is only the old rag of
time, distance only, mind is timeless—
free against the innocence. Much is burden
—all disconnection—connection and fall,
nowhere the lesson, hell is for heaven—
blame is for blame—all is for all—situation,
no conclusion, fight the fighter, be the fall.
Every test is testable, life is the song,
yours only, mine only, love is clue,
futile as hope, hope forever—it's only
here—it's only gone—tantrum of prayer,
lamentable . . . peace be my region . . .
the sections . . . love is true . . .
the measure of God . . .
____________________
REM-SLEEP
i saw the pastor at the market,
i’m sure it was him, he was in line
looking forward empty as though
he hadn’t noticed me standing nearby.
otherwise he would have had to say hello
and ask, how is your daughter, and did
you and your husband ever marry?
and then did he die?
i’m sure it was him.
Rem-Sleep
RUSH
—Robin Gale Odam
I've lit a cigarette
and placed it
in that
crystal ash tray.
I've decided to
kill myself.
With second-hand
smoke.
What's the rush?
_____________________
SELF HELP
—Robin Gale Odam
If I could only balance
on a tightrope, or write this
on parchment and burn it to ash,
maybe then.
____________________
DAIS
—Robin Gale Odam
not on a pedestal of religion,
written to persuade,
and yet to place love into the
cumbrous vehicle of words
—like blowing bubbles onto a
freight car for delivery,
in hush and whisper,
barely audible as prayer,
transparent as water
(prev. pub. in Brevities, 2014)
___________________
DRAFT
—Robin Gale Odam
he awoke in the
dark and reached for his
pencil and notebook—
the soft whispering and the
sound of graphite over the dry
page, something like a shiver of
cold outside or grey fishes
sipping at the sheen on the frozen
pond or birds preening their feathers
or the flurry just ahead of sunrise—
the draft pouring in around the door
Down Winter Hills
WHITE FLOWERS
—Robin Gale Odam
She rose into the dark morning
and gave her candle its flame.
She placed it behind the stained glass
hummingbird of lavender
with green wing-feathers
and a soft yellow sky.
She dropped a lemon peel
and three ice cubes
into a glass of water.
She dusted her body
with the scent of white flowers
and put on her tiny diamonds
set in white gold.
She sipped the bitter lemon
and stared at the translucent bird
in its yellow sky.
It looked as beautiful as a sunrise.
She knew the day would steal her away.
She would cook oatmeal with raisins
and count lunch money
and remind them all to please hang up their wet towels.
She would navigate traffic
and wait for every red light
and her secret would be
that her music was turned up full blast.
She would cling with all her life
to the fullness of the drums and the bass
and her heart would pour itself out again.
She would be nine minutes late.
She would accept every task
and turn every way
and do many things at once
and eat crackers for lunch
and forget to breathe
and not stop once until the end.
She would fall through a dream
of traffic and red lights
and a stop at the store
for something she would not remember
and children in the schoolyard
and the five steps to her front door.
She would say she loves them
and remind them to please
pick up their shoes and socks.
She would slide into her old soft gown
and place her diamonds into the red silk box.
She would lean into her feather pillow
and close her eyes for just a moment.
Her sons would blow Pachelbel’s Canon
through their flutes.
Her daughter would draw her a picture
of a wolf with long eyelashes
wearing a saddle and bracelets.
She would not be able to open her eyes.
She would smell the faint scent
of white flowers.
She rose into the dark morning
and gave her candle its flame.
She placed it behind the stained glass
hummingbird of lavender
with green wing-feathers
and a soft yellow sky.
She dropped a lemon peel
and three ice cubes
into a glass of water.
She dusted her body
with the scent of white flowers
and put on her tiny diamonds
set in white gold.
She sipped the bitter lemon
and stared at the translucent bird
in its yellow sky.
It looked as beautiful as a sunrise.
She knew the day would steal her away.
She would cook oatmeal with raisins
and count lunch money
and remind them all to please hang up their wet towels.
She would navigate traffic
and wait for every red light
and her secret would be
that her music was turned up full blast.
She would cling with all her life
to the fullness of the drums and the bass
and her heart would pour itself out again.
She would be nine minutes late.
She would accept every task
and turn every way
and do many things at once
and eat crackers for lunch
and forget to breathe
and not stop once until the end.
She would fall through a dream
of traffic and red lights
and a stop at the store
for something she would not remember
and children in the schoolyard
and the five steps to her front door.
She would say she loves them
and remind them to please
pick up their shoes and socks.
She would slide into her old soft gown
and place her diamonds into the red silk box.
She would lean into her feather pillow
and close her eyes for just a moment.
Her sons would blow Pachelbel’s Canon
through their flutes.
Her daughter would draw her a picture
of a wolf with long eyelashes
wearing a saddle and bracelets.
She would not be able to open her eyes.
She would smell the faint scent
of white flowers.
A World-Wide Pall of Change
Today’s LittleNip:
FOR THE BETTER WORLD
—Joyce Odam
This year we seem to share
a world-wide pall of change
for the better world—
not as an ending but the end,
not the old cliché,
for better or for worse,
and yet, will we, won't we,
still cry out our love, saying
the same old Happy New Year
with the same old life and heart.
___________________
Joyce Odam continues to dance down the road to recovery from her fractured hip, courageously launching four new poems this week, while caretaker-daughter Robin Odam fills in with some poetry and photos of her own. Our thanks and holiday greetings to them as they write about Lighting Up The Darkness, our Seed of the Week.
Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week. Our new one is “Bells”. Church bells? School bells? Wedding bells? Who belled the cat—or stretch it to Belle of the Ball. 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. And see every Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.
____________________
—Medusa
For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
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.
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
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.
