Dreaming of the Journey

    

Something Worthy of the Dream  

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,

Sacramento, CA

—Photos by Robin Gale Odam

 

 

 

THE VASTNESS OF NOWHERE
—Joyce Odam

I have nothing here to find. I am a lonely
land, nowhere to go in my used-up yester-

day, how can I sway from here to anywhere.
It, too, is not to be, this must be the vastness

of nowhere until you get there too soon, or
not yet—time is the old reach, we are spent

on everything for nothing—again—I am not
sure—the world employs my usefulness of

mirrors, of youth and old alike. Time lingers
on and we still count the stretch of distance,

even yesterday with the sentiment of truth,
which is what we turn out to be, just you

and me—you beautiful reader of truth—
as I am wont to be. 

 

 

 

From Here to Nowhere

VECTOR FIELD
—Robin Gale Odam

The perfect day blooms outside the
window for the catching of daydreams.
The curtains guard the room with the

fluttering of shadows behind the child
sitting with the kitten, in the trance of
boyhood. The goldfish navigate their

course inside the small bowl, along the
curves of geometry, within the volume
and depth of a universe.

                             
(prev. pub. in Brevities, March 2020)

___________________

THE CONDUCTOR
—Joyce Odam

Music as it plays,
to being alive as no other,
quickly to be alive—to be alive

against one for orchestra with
breathless hold of long endurance,
skill, and tension, the power—

a long music for the beating,
breathing heart of dedication
in dedication of music as itself—

music allowed, this skill of loud
and quiet music, of the shades
of almost disappearance

allowed to have this skill of
loud and quiet music, the shades
of almost disappearance, breath as

sound for the distance of breath
as breath, as sound-forests and
endurance waiting the rise of time. 

 

 

 

 The Rise of Time

IN THE DUST
—Robin Gale Odam

we play in the meadow,
in the dust of the arid dirt . . .

we build sloping hills with
furrows all around . . .

we draw our names and
pat them all flat, we draw the
rainbow, the tortoise, the moon . . .

you remember we used to play
at the beach, building castles
with tin shovels and pails . . .

you ask me if father might
take us there . . .

I look long at the sky,
remember rain . . . 

 

 

 

 Dream of Snow

A WORRY OF DREAMS
—Joyce Odam

WHAT CAN I MAKE OF A DREAM

. . . alien to my sleep, nothing known or wanted
I do not want for sleep—but something for an
old craving, something worthy of the dream . . .
 
                             ~~~

TO BE THE WORLD WITH A DREAM :

. . . people thronging along with a long rope
that's leading them—away and far—a place
to where futures are . . .

                             ~~~

NEVER WORRY FOR THE WORST :

. . . it's bound to come before you change your
mind—it has already come and gone a hundred
times . . .

                             ~~~  

IF I CRY TO ANY REGRET :

. . . if I cry the cost of tears—so what, to fret
against a tear so long ago . . .

                             ~~~  

BRING ME A FIRE FOR I AM COLD :

. . . one sadness has me still, and I am cold—
and I miss something I cannot find—or name
I once remembered or knew . . .

_____________________

THAT SONG
—Robin Gale Odam

I avoid it because it
stabs me in the heart with

emotional stabbings—I know
that sounds awful but it's the

awfullest way I can say this
awfulness—and now I can't

get it out of my mind. It's a
love song.

              
(prev. pub. in Sacramento Voices Anthology, 2017)

 

 

 

 Winter Orchid

TO LOOK FOR THE YETI
—Robin Gale Odam

—the ride through the mountains
to look for the yeti, one day they would
go there, together, or maybe she’d

stay for the children in case of a breakdown,
or one of them sick or in trouble with schoolwork

—the bikes are all rusting at phases of fixing,
the passions of extra-fine steel wool and waxing,

and keys are gone missing and spark plugs
are scattered with short bolts and washers
in various ashtrays

—and in the days past he had always, at bedtime,
remembered to ask if she’d spoken with Jesus

—the nurses attend to his morphine at midnight
but yeti is out there . . . he dreams of the journey

 

 

 

 Away and Far

WHISKEY
—Robin Gale Odam

It sifted into her childhood, her mother's faith— "when my ship comes in . . ." her mother would say, and laugh above her whiskey. The sound was soulful when the old vessel lifted, and dipped windward from the direction of the setting sun.

whisperings of hope
then a prayer billowed the sail
and the ship came in
                                  

(prev. pub. in Brevities, January 2017)

_______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

VENEER
—Robin Gale odam

You were beautiful—your mask,
your costumes, your voices, and the
lyrics you sang as if you were real.

               
(prev. pub. in Brevities, October 2013)

_______________________

Many thanks today to Joyce Odam and her daughter, Robin Gale Odam, for poems and photos and general stunningness! About her “Whisky” poem, Robin writes, “it’s a favorite oldie written for my Mama and her Mama…” It does them both proud, Robin Gale.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Free”. Lots of connotations with that word; I’ll let you ferret them out. After all, the best things in life are…  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

 

 

 

Cowgirl looks for the yeti~

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

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