Wrong is Never Right

 

Contemplation

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,

Sacramento, CA

—Photos by Robin Gale Odam

 

 

 

STANDING BAREFOOT
—Robin Gale Odam

Standing barefoot in the grass
before first light in the comfort of
peace—ice crystals, frozen pockets of
air, the black sky, a sudden burst of
flight, the muted sound of wings—
the swift and vanishing dark,
the cold breath of night.

___________________

THE WEATHER
—Joyce Odam

Last summer
we wanted rain,
all that heat, the-
winter-wish. And
then came both, the-
winter-wish. We wan-
ted spring, the summer
yearn, the cold, too cold,
then autumn, more winter,
too hot—

how many just-right days
can one get through in
one year—forget it—
the ice—the rain.

 

 

 

 Just-Right Days

ONCE I HEARD SONG
—Joyce Odam

once I heard song
before voices knew how
they would fill the space
of weepers—

so sad there was no
soothing or understanding
to feel the feel away—

later the hummers wound
their silences so painful only
tears could take awhile to
endure the cause it made—

oh nothing could stop the
night wailers of night howlers
and sobbers that touched the
other criers once I heard song—

 

 

 

 Harbinger

THE ROAD WAS LONG
—Robin Gale Odam

Trace of red on the horizon—
my heart bleeds—the road was
long. You are gone.

 

 

 

 Sleeping in a Dream

COMMITTING A MEMORY
—Robin Gale Odam

I had to think of you today—the wind
was like a crying in my blood, my breath
caught something because I was sleeping
in a dream and then someone was singing . . .

And the long words were just a voice
and they captured my sorrow—the light
flickered from the television screen—
I opened my eyes and stood to my feet . . .

The long words of the voice held my
breath from crying—the television audience
rose to their feet in ovation . . .

 

 

 

 As Thought

I THINK OF NOTHING
—Joyce Odam

I think of
nothing—nothing
is there,

an old chair rocks
in the corner
of an old distance—

I find myself there,
watching its shadow—
I feel the breath

of its existence,
even tomorrow.
I am weeping

to someone, someone
brushing my hair—
what is holding me

from myself—take me
away from myself. This
is such an old memory.

 

 

 

 Every Intention

TESTY
—Robin Gale Odam

I had no time to write
the script, verbs hissing
around me like flying bugs . . .

And tasking, tasking felt
so normal but now the day is
winding down and I can't seem to
remember deeper than the first line . . .

Every day is the same day
sewn together by billions of
minutes with their languages and
dialects and harbingers ever the same . . . 

 

 

 

Just Love

 

 

JUST LOVE
—Joyce Odam

Sometimes there is
only the first chance

looking for the last chance.
Chances are not as possible

as the thought.
Why do we argue

with word or gesture when
wrong is never right.

I've been contemplating this
and still honor every intention.

Love is so stubborn with its
ab-so-lu-tain-ty.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip(s):

JOYOUS
—Robin Gale Odam

Yes I have no shame
today—I am buoyant and lofty
again . . . there is more to be said—
blah blah blah.

* * *

OLD ADVICE
—Joyce Odam

You've just gotta stop and think
about your thoughts . . .

____________________

Joyce Odam and her daughter, Robin Gale Odam, have sent us their wonderful poems today, and we thank them for that, as well as for Robin’s photos! Joyce remains at Robin’s house, recuperating.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Mercy”. 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

 

 

 

 “Once I heard song. . .”

—Public Domain Artwork

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!