A Truth
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Robin Gale Odam
IN DIFFERENT SEASONS
—Joyce Odam
A wing-held moment,
the bird indifferent to itself
until it appears, long ago
forgotten, and no longer known.
It flies right up to your memory,
of such a reality to prove. But now
you are redeemed. You had a truth.
How will you be wrong.
__________________
INTERLACE
—Robin Gale Odam
In the mid-afternoon window light
the woman threads her needle and
guides the delicate strand—her fingers
move over the lace as over prayer beads.
She exhales as in a whispering. Her children
are grown and gone away.
__________________
AS THE FABLE GOES
—Robin Gale Odam
The worry creeps in, the low shudder under the
deep, silent hour, for the ripple of rumors—
and in the garden, the curiosity and the knowing,
and, of course, the even number of pages—
and the rasp of a breath—or the faint flourish
of an author—perhaps a whisper, as of a tight wind
for those on the wing—and the chrysalis, for
unfolding—
and gems, lots of gems—the uneven number of
petals, the golden grasses, the crown and the
face of beauty—and the sky the color of dark wine,
and someone to arrive as a cue, as for an ending.
The ripple of an hour should do.
—Joyce Odam
A wing-held moment,
the bird indifferent to itself
until it appears, long ago
forgotten, and no longer known.
It flies right up to your memory,
of such a reality to prove. But now
you are redeemed. You had a truth.
How will you be wrong.
__________________
INTERLACE
—Robin Gale Odam
In the mid-afternoon window light
the woman threads her needle and
guides the delicate strand—her fingers
move over the lace as over prayer beads.
She exhales as in a whispering. Her children
are grown and gone away.
__________________
AS THE FABLE GOES
—Robin Gale Odam
The worry creeps in, the low shudder under the
deep, silent hour, for the ripple of rumors—
and in the garden, the curiosity and the knowing,
and, of course, the even number of pages—
and the rasp of a breath—or the faint flourish
of an author—perhaps a whisper, as of a tight wind
for those on the wing—and the chrysalis, for
unfolding—
and gems, lots of gems—the uneven number of
petals, the golden grasses, the crown and the
face of beauty—and the sky the color of dark wine,
and someone to arrive as a cue, as for an ending.
The ripple of an hour should do.
On The Rippled Water
BAROMETER
—Robin Gale Odam
Standing in the timeless boat
on the far side of the august river,
you press the long pole into the riverbed.
The vessel at rest in the moment,
your reflection on the rippled water,
in the ache of remembering, in the long
glance behind at the dream you were
given to live,
with the gravity of the stave in hand
you depart for the rarified horizon.
Another Chronicle
INSOMNIA XLIX
—Robin Gale Odam
a crumpled poem in the
shadows on the floor
another chronicle for the
sun—it was cherry-red and
now it is gone, gone into the blush
of nightfall, the deep russet shawl
on the horizon having bled away
every day a transparency, every
ending an illusion
the single nightingale gathers star-
light—the old moon owns the night
(prev. pub. in Brevities, March-April 2021)
—Robin Gale Odam
a crumpled poem in the
shadows on the floor
another chronicle for the
sun—it was cherry-red and
now it is gone, gone into the blush
of nightfall, the deep russet shawl
on the horizon having bled away
every day a transparency, every
ending an illusion
the single nightingale gathers star-
light—the old moon owns the night
(prev. pub. in Brevities, March-April 2021)
Maybe Stay
INSOMNIA LI
—Robin Gale Odam
Poem out of the night hours,
notebook at the gate—
chittering of birds, darkened woods,
morning far away, so little to say.
Maybe stay—fetch the fiery thought
that forged the catalyst for the cue
and then faded before the page
was turned, before the pen was
lifted, before the night had fallen.
Even before the night.
(prev. pub. in Brevities, January/February 2022)
—Robin Gale Odam
Poem out of the night hours,
notebook at the gate—
chittering of birds, darkened woods,
morning far away, so little to say.
Maybe stay—fetch the fiery thought
that forged the catalyst for the cue
and then faded before the page
was turned, before the pen was
lifted, before the night had fallen.
Even before the night.
(prev. pub. in Brevities, January/February 2022)
In Silhouette
INSOMNIA LII
—Robin Gale Odam
Tonight I simply want to ponder
with simple simplicity.
But the scarlet horizon.
I made one notation with an old
pencil, tried to edit with the dried
eraser, scarlet smudged and then
from some unknown cause the sting
of tears—one curious phrase about
the faint bleed of scarlet on a new
page for the deep nighttime,
and only because of a
casual metaphor.
Frail branch in silhouette
just inside the tangle of trees.
Maybe the dark bird will come back.
(prev. pub. in Brevities, March/April 2022)
—Robin Gale Odam
Tonight I simply want to ponder
with simple simplicity.
But the scarlet horizon.
I made one notation with an old
pencil, tried to edit with the dried
eraser, scarlet smudged and then
from some unknown cause the sting
of tears—one curious phrase about
the faint bleed of scarlet on a new
page for the deep nighttime,
and only because of a
casual metaphor.
Frail branch in silhouette
just inside the tangle of trees.
Maybe the dark bird will come back.
(prev. pub. in Brevities, March/April 2022)
An Hour Of Time
FEELING
—Joyce Odam
The losing—losing what is
yours, something that is gone
now that, when it was here there
was an hour of time for the
loss of the self that has no worth
now—the losing that is yours.
Something is good in the troubled
way. Time had nowhere to be in
the worth of ever to be sad—
only a dry cry somewhere in the
story told by the author, stuck
somewhere in the story.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
AND NOW THE MOON
(Jake Braddeley, Drawing Down the Moon)
—Robin Gale Odam
cobalt, black, and water’s tears,
the looking glass, a crystal globe,
a dreamer’s mirror, the science book—
the artist steps away, and now the
moon from full to sheer
(prev. pub. in Brevities, 2017)
_____________________
Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam have sent us their takes on our Seed of the Week, “Just Before Sunset”, and the magic that happens in that "hour of time". It’s always a great joy to see them sitting at the Kitchen table. Our thanks to this dynamic duo for today’s poetry and photos!
Our new Seed of the Week is “A Walk in the Woods”. 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. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.
______________________
—Medusa
It’s Second Tuesday Poetry online
tonight in Modesto, with
Lynn Hansen, Richard Robbins and
Thomas Mitchell, 7pm.
For details about this and other
upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
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.
tonight in Modesto, with
Lynn Hansen, Richard Robbins and
Thomas Mitchell, 7pm.
For details about this and other
upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
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.
