Shadows Reaching Through Shadows

 In His Garden

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Joyce Odam

 

 

MEMORIES
—Joyce Odam

one by one I arrange them
on my shelves
sharp and brilliant
like glass
light-catchers
dust-holders
vain and useless
poignant and repetitive
giving in at last to new ones

* * * * *

how my collection grows
conjured real
by tricks of incantations
become semi-precious
like stones
held by a spreading shimmer
till they dull and blend
by loss     by years
each indiscernible from the other
                            

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/1/21)

 

 

 

Fault Line

 

MEMORY BOOK
—Robin Gale Odam

there we are, looking out into the
faraway—you gazing over the dark

river, me searching the forest of dark
trees . . . still in love with each other—

and each of us, from time to random
time, remembering someone else

_____________________

THE KITCHEN
—Joyce Odam

Another fragment, (the waiting from then to now)
to have this memory : morning sunlight : no pend-
ing but a hum, caught on one note : a slow smile
that lifts to mine as I remember this, but who is
there—

who is there that I can’t make out—a voice from
outside of this—an absent voice; a feeling of love
that owns this moment; a room that begins to swirl :
I am coming through a bright doorway. My mother
turns and says, Good Morning, Sunshine.

 

 

 

Before the Storm

THERE WERE ARMS FILLED WITH TIME
—Joyce Odam

How long ago was that?
There was the sensation
of holding.
So necessary.
Life was in a hurry.
So was time.
We were in its grip.
Swift. Intoxicated
and uncertain.
What did we know?
We held each other
in the dark mysteries.
Was this love?
What did we know?
We were practice.
Tremble. Young,
with the loneliness
of the young.
We were pulled away
into the swift years.
We forgot each other.
Our faces would fade.
We would become shadows
reaching through shadows
and find nothing but
our own selves
dancing to the mirror.
Music returned with this.
Music came back
to remind us.
Oh, vanished ones,
of my memories,
which side of memory
are you on?
It seemed like love.
Time is aloof, suspended
somewhere like a spell
put upon those
who believe in spells.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/2/18)

____________________

BAD MEMORIES
 —Joyce Odam

Not to be forgotten
for memory is
the last place they will go.

And you will go there, too,
and suffer for them,
having caught up with yourself,

a suffocation of thoughts,
remorse tweaking your mind
at unexpected moments

until you ask,
of no god but yourself,
forgive…. forgive…. forgive….

                          
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/1712; 6/1/21) 

 

 

 

Way Deep

 

KITCHEN DAY-DREAM
—Joyce Odam

wrapped in music she goes deep—
goes deep

into her own
composing heart

how long ago is love—
how far away is time—

her eyes glaze
to a distant stare

someone is there,
evolving

into a familiar sadness
they embrace, the music dies away 

 

 

 

The Color of Her Eyes

 

LOW WINDOW LIGHT
—Joyce Odam

The window used to hold her there,
standing and watching the day change,
her eyes holding the vague eye of distance.

However far it was, she was patient.
The room darkened behind her, the window
glinted, caught the last of the sunlight.

She grew timeless then. The waiting
never ended. The patience understood.
There was never any end to the story.

                                          
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/19/15;
12/28/21)

____________________

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.

                              
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/13/23)

 

 

 

Touch of Pink

CONJURING UP MEMORIES
—Joyce Odam

Oh, broken childhood,
full of places and fears—
tears and forgotten

faces—who,    
and who,    and who,
are these others flowing past,

forgetting you—
you who are so small
and must go where life leads,

all the ways toward the center
past the quick
forgotten friends,

you who promised them
forever :  goodbye,    goodbye,
and more goodbye.

Now you spiral back
and arrive where you are :
questionless,    

and answerless :
everywhere is here,
has always been here,

moment upon moment,    
hour, and year—why grieve
for what you cannot know.

A seagull appears in your dreams,
and another,    and another—
those old cries.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/16/10;
12/15/15; 10/23/18)

__________________

KNOWING WHAT FROM WHAT
—Joyce Odam

Little is known about the truths
we tell—want to believe—need.

I've marked all the passages
that speak for me—

my praise for you, my awe
at how this works, the spark,

the flash of time that proves—
we who have words, who bless  

and curse and need them so—
so wantingly.

___________________

INSOMNIA XL
—Robin Gale Odam

the silent movie flickering in
halting motions, the measured falter
of the projector—or the faultless clock

darkness in the white moon shadow
at the flicker of a dream—one sip of
yesterday’s coffee, cold and black,
bitter as perfection

i will write this tomorrow at the slip of
daylight—for now i will close my book
and step over the threshold     listen for
the night’s raptor     the piercing of the sky

                        
(prev. pub. in Brevities, March 2020)

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE WORTH OF THE GAME
—Joyce Odam

I am playing solitaire again and I know when I
will not win—all black cards will turn up or all
reds—or no aces will show—or a king will be
in the first position. Sometimes I reshuffle and
begin again, but mostly I just play it out—
hesitating between identical plays—
trying to guess past the backs
of down-cards. I lose and
play again—the worth
of the game is in knowing
that winning at solitaire is boring.

_________________

Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam, between them, have a passel of memories and the skill to write about them! Our thanks for this fine, memorable collection today~  

Our new Seed of the Week is “Ornery”. 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

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Twin Lotus Thai Fourth Tuesdays
presents Tom Meschery and
Susan Kelly-DeWitt tonight
in Sacramento, 6pm.
(Reservations recommended!)
For into about this and other
 future 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—
and keep an eye on this link and on
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—or get changed!—
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