To Meet My Mother
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Robin Gale Odam
HELLO MAMA
—Joyce Odam
Hello Mama, I am with you today.
I am so close to you and my love for
you is tender and loving as it always is.
Our distance from each other doesn’t take
us away from each other—that is ours.
A whole life of our mother-and-daughter
fathoming back, with our thoughts and
blessings of and for our everness of
love—never apart with heart and
soul—me to you.
—Joyce Odam
Hello Mama, I am with you today.
I am so close to you and my love for
you is tender and loving as it always is.
Our distance from each other doesn’t take
us away from each other—that is ours.
A whole life of our mother-and-daughter
fathoming back, with our thoughts and
blessings of and for our everness of
love—never apart with heart and
soul—me to you.
The Will of the Bird
MANY MOONS AND YON
—Robin Gale Odam
spatial memory—whatsoever
am i thinking, should i wonder
thoughts
roll up like waves
then away—like the rip current
the wind, as the crow flies—
at first the straight line but then
the will of the bird, the curve of
the landscape
the wailing, or holding on—
the waters from black of night,
no word to call them nor moon to
pull them back
the movie—something about
a life and living along someone’s
margins
what time has it come to be—
long ago and far
i saw the faint scribble at the
center of the tiny book—i touched it
curiously and it was only dust
—Robin Gale Odam
spatial memory—whatsoever
am i thinking, should i wonder
thoughts
roll up like waves
then away—like the rip current
the wind, as the crow flies—
at first the straight line but then
the will of the bird, the curve of
the landscape
the wailing, or holding on—
the waters from black of night,
no word to call them nor moon to
pull them back
the movie—something about
a life and living along someone’s
margins
what time has it come to be—
long ago and far
i saw the faint scribble at the
center of the tiny book—i touched it
curiously and it was only dust
No Despair
ON MY BLUE HORSE
—Joyce Odam
I come from time
on my blue horse.
See me ride on the horizon—
all distance and compression.
I take forever.
There is no hurry or despair.
I am riding to meet my mother,
who is that slow light in the east.
I am bringing her
stars for her lack of stars
to put in her blue vase
on the windowsill of morning.
I am returning
from the journey
I began when we were children.
I was a child with her.
We played
in the little box of sand.
I was her doll. She lived for me;
she said so.
Now I can’t wait to tell her
of my journey,
how night
is a land between us,
and my blue horse
is one I am bringing back to her.
She will touch its sides
with her hands
and look at me and smile;
and I will get off,
and she will get on, and ride off,
back the way I came.
Chapbook: The Power of the Moment
by Joyce Odam, Red Cedar Press Poetry, 1998
Chapbook: On My Blue Horse by Joyce Odam,
Choice of Words Press (Illustrated by daughter
Charlotte Vincent), 1998
—Joyce Odam
I come from time
on my blue horse.
See me ride on the horizon—
all distance and compression.
I take forever.
There is no hurry or despair.
I am riding to meet my mother,
who is that slow light in the east.
I am bringing her
stars for her lack of stars
to put in her blue vase
on the windowsill of morning.
I am returning
from the journey
I began when we were children.
I was a child with her.
We played
in the little box of sand.
I was her doll. She lived for me;
she said so.
Now I can’t wait to tell her
of my journey,
how night
is a land between us,
and my blue horse
is one I am bringing back to her.
She will touch its sides
with her hands
and look at me and smile;
and I will get off,
and she will get on, and ride off,
back the way I came.
Chapbook: The Power of the Moment
by Joyce Odam, Red Cedar Press Poetry, 1998
Chapbook: On My Blue Horse by Joyce Odam,
Choice of Words Press (Illustrated by daughter
Charlotte Vincent), 1998
How Night
THE SHORT STORY
—Robin Gale Odam
Pile of paving bricks—mortar
dried in the bucket. Tall weeds and
their stickers.
Makeshift chair leaning over the path.
Lace of torn webs.
___________________
WHATEVER HEALS THE MIND
—Joyce Odam
Whichever way the piano
plays. Another day, another blue
horse. Another which-way, another
better or worse. Whatever heals the
mind more than it hurts.
Solutions. When nothing works,
let’s start with the blue horse, some-
thing that soothes—the piano I once
had but could not play—and art in
all its musics, all valid . . .
—Robin Gale Odam
Pile of paving bricks—mortar
dried in the bucket. Tall weeds and
their stickers.
Makeshift chair leaning over the path.
Lace of torn webs.
___________________
WHATEVER HEALS THE MIND
—Joyce Odam
Whichever way the piano
plays. Another day, another blue
horse. Another which-way, another
better or worse. Whatever heals the
mind more than it hurts.
Solutions. When nothing works,
let’s start with the blue horse, some-
thing that soothes—the piano I once
had but could not play—and art in
all its musics, all valid . . .
Syllables
HE IS YOUR HAWK
—Robin Gale Odam
He is your hawk. He feels
your despair. He soars and hunts
for words, silhouette on the blue
heaven, strong wings outstretched,
keen eyes fixed. His nest is your
dreams. He has been yours
for his lifetime. He is your hawk.
He finds prayers scattered around
you, blessings from your oldest father,
tears them into syllables, feeds them
to the dreamer, cries his hunter cry
for your salvation. He is your hawk.
(prev. pub. in Brevities, Feb. 2011?)
—Robin Gale Odam
He is your hawk. He feels
your despair. He soars and hunts
for words, silhouette on the blue
heaven, strong wings outstretched,
keen eyes fixed. His nest is your
dreams. He has been yours
for his lifetime. He is your hawk.
He finds prayers scattered around
you, blessings from your oldest father,
tears them into syllables, feeds them
to the dreamer, cries his hunter cry
for your salvation. He is your hawk.
(prev. pub. in Brevities, Feb. 2011?)
As It All Was
THE ONE WHO KNOWS
—Joyce Odam
The under-line under which
we go, too far looking beyond
the now, deep and fading, how it
leads downward again no matter
which ‘where’ you count on—
such guessing you count on
but here you are somewhere,
still looking for your somewhere
behind you, familiar, someone
growing closer to reach. You ask
the way. You don’t know. Some-
one pleads to lead you home again.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
ghosts of old stanzas
now a mesh of random noise
flowers at the door
—Robin Gale Odam
(prev. pub. in Brevities, March 2020)
______________________
Two of our poet-mamas, Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam, have sent us gorgeous poems and pix today, some based on our Seed of the Week, “Under Her Wing”. Many thanks to them for those! Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.
Our new Seed of the Week is “Gorgeous”. 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 our Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.
_______________________
—Medusa
—Joyce Odam
The under-line under which
we go, too far looking beyond
the now, deep and fading, how it
leads downward again no matter
which ‘where’ you count on—
such guessing you count on
but here you are somewhere,
still looking for your somewhere
behind you, familiar, someone
growing closer to reach. You ask
the way. You don’t know. Some-
one pleads to lead you home again.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
ghosts of old stanzas
now a mesh of random noise
flowers at the door
—Robin Gale Odam
(prev. pub. in Brevities, March 2020)
______________________
Two of our poet-mamas, Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam, have sent us gorgeous poems and pix today, some based on our Seed of the Week, “Under Her Wing”. Many thanks to them for those! Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.
Our new Seed of the Week is “Gorgeous”. 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 our Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.
_______________________
—Medusa
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
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.
