Tuesday, October 10, 2023

Too Young For Dying

It Was A Dream, We Said
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Robin Gale Odam

—Robin Gale Odam  

News of world troubles.
Television ministry sings praise.
Soothing commercial describes
side effects from new medicine.
Soup simmers in the kitchen. 
 Too Deep To Remember

—Joyce Odam

Give me a day to enter, to enter
without disguise—I am too deep
to remember.

I am too deep to be remembered as
my own, and that has troubled me.

I am too deep to be remembered as
my own although I, as I am some
times, am that that has troubled me.

I hear a music there I know as mine.
It is mine. I hum its tune.

I hear music—I reach for its words
faded with its blue. And still I reach
for blue.


—Robin Gale Odam

the bright lemon, the noble
orange. the mysterious cranberry.
the sweet, dried plum, the stalwart
apple. dry toast. 

—Joyce Odam

Once, I wrote a word
gave it to a bird
flying it away.

—Joyce Odam

Circle the day.
And what is this day again?

When something is saved for
something of another day when
the pencil broke and I forgot the
message not to forget . . .

Or is this that day . . . I seem to
still be on that day. I do seem to
be. And what is this day again?

When the pencil broke . . . hey,
words forget me. 
 Not To Forget   
—Robin Gale Odam

Tonight my shadow
wrote this poem—it was for
all of you, shadows of shadows,
cast across the floor in the dark.

I move carefully through the house,
avoid the windows, the starlight.
—Joyce Odam

It was not true—it was the way we floated 

through blue and heavy water all the way to 

death and back—almost too heavy to bear: 

the shadow distances, uncertain and com-

pelling; the silent way we looked at each 

other and gave up our fear. We were too young 

for dying, though one of us would return 

changed and the other would not remember. 

It was a dream, we said, as we kept turning 

and turning, buoyant and made of moon-

light. It was only sleep-water, we promised, 

as we flowed through windows into cur-

rents, relentless as migratory pullings. If we 

lost each other, we promised, we would never 

give up the searching. We would not 

need air. We would hear each other through 

our calling. It was only love, we tried to ex-

plain to the few who would listen.

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen,  10/22/13)

 Of A Different Time
—Robin Gale Odam

. . . in the leaves, the by-
gone of a different time barely
away from me now . . .

. . . of a different time, the
quiet stirring blown over, un-
remembered, in the past . . .

. . . the little wind and the flutter
of leaves, almost ready to fall, con-
signed to oblivion . . .

. . . or maybe just buried
in a line on a page of the journal,
and nearly forgotten . . .


—Joyce Odam

We have one line, we have one typo.
I am going away. I am fading.
I am touching the rocks. 
              The Merger of Opinions             

Today’s LittleNip:

—Joyce Odam

Each voice is a solution to the
question, to the answers … there is
the louder voice with the hand gesture,
fierce, eyes that hold : that’s when the
merger of opinions, rejections and the
struggling voice that can’t see, and
what was that question . . . ?

We’ve made a fine connection today with Joyce Odam and her daughter, Robin Gale Odam, with their poems about, among other things, our Seed of the Week, “Connections”. Our thanks to them for their fine poetry and Robin’s fine photos.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Trapped”. Endless meetings? Money troubles? Dinner with the in-laws? Or just stuck in a web of your own making? Send your poems, photos & artwork about various ways of being trapped (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.


 —Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

A reminder that today,
 Women’s Wisdom Art and Crocker Art Museum 
are collaborating on a free  
Writing and Watercolor Workshop  
(registration required). Also, starting today,
 Kathryn Hohlwein will be offering 
an online workshop series during October, 
November and December; 
registration also required. 
And tonight is Modesto-Stanislaus Poetry 
Center’s online Second Tuesday Reading  
with Brynn Saito and Cristina Sandoval.
For details about these and other
upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
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.

Find previous four-or-so posts
by scrolling down under
today’s; or find previous poets by
 typing the name into the little beige box
at the top left-hand side of today’s post;
or go to Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom  
of the blue column at the right
 and find the date you want.

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!
(Here’s to loving connections!)
LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today):

window blinds
divide the world into
tolerable slices