It's 4 A.M. Again~

 Fallen Leaves

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

 

 

FOUR A.M. AGAIN
—Joyce Odam

The intrusive cat—at my elbow, attentive to
my silence, filling my space, cleaning her fur. 

                                 .

I must love what I love, but nothing fits—the
darkness has a crack of light, and the light has a
patch of darkness—fabric and thread, pulling
and holding. 

                                 .

Nothing is mine. It all belongs to the figments
and the realities—like this invisible mosquito—
so intrusive, so intrusive—to my poem.

                                  
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/15/13) 

 

 

 

Mystery

SMOKY WINE
—Robin Gale Odam

The metronome, the
sundial, and the pendulum.

____________________

MOTHER IS OUT FEEDING THE BIRDS AGAIN
—Joyce Odam

Mother is out feeding the birds again.
They have brought their quiet wings
to her noisy hand.

This time she feeds them chips of light
so they can rise, glass-winged,
and cut through night.

Mother has given them seeds and bread
and they have not given back
even song.

One time she gave them words and cries
and they left some feathers
and her rueful eyes to follow them.

They will come down for anything.
She has not emptied
the kitchen yet.

She gives them shells of eggs and olive
stones. They are the hungriest
birds she knows.

Even in winter
she gives them food—
ice cubes and rose petals she has saved.

They have yet to thank her or make
a sound, other than their breathing shadow,
grown so large it covers
both her and her little ground.
                                            

(prev. pub. in ARX, Arx Foundation, Jan 1970;
Lemon Center for Hot Buttered Roll, Chapbook
by Joyce Odam, 1970; and Medusa’s Kitchen,
12/6/10; 08/26/14)

 

 

 

 Call Me

DAVID
(10/23/1967)

ok, i’ll let you
be an adult now,
but don’t go
too far

—Robin Gale Odam 

 

 

 

 Those Eyes

Those eyes again,

still with power to haunt,
old eyes have nothing to do
with beauty as youth—

such eyes
keep forever what they see,
repeating what they know;

the age-old
mind
knows what life has told :

life is a flame—sorrow and joy,
life is a reason for the flame
to continue

the woman of such eyes holds
what old admirers remember—
what strangers yearn to know;

such eyes burn
and burn
through everything;

such eyes
feed
the flame—

the singular existence
that feeds the entire stream
of consciousness and connection.


—Joyce Odam

 

 

 

 In My Silence

                            

DREAMS ME AGAIN
—Joyce Odam

Dreams me again in violent sleep—
sees me in red deep loom—woman
of moan, blood-shadowed, whom he
follows helplessly. I smile at him on
mornings when he tells

me stories I do not comprehend. To-
night I will follow him again and call
him to the edges and the dark; and I
will be so silent he will think I am fate
masquerading as love; and

when the morning hand is clocking
one more circle around us, I will slip
out of his mind when he wakens and
smile my innocence when once more
he tells me his dreaming.

                                      
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 

10/12/17; 10/26/21)

 
____________________

ROLLING CLAY  
—Robin Gale Odam

i never dream

it is always
the present moment
and yet i have this hour

the shade behind my eyes
or what i cannot see

i set myself on the mantle
and try not to breathe

i am a balloon on a string

the long echo remembers me

i am a balloon on a string

i take myself to the mantle
and try not to breathe

the shade behind my eyes
of what i cannot see

it is always
the present moment
and yet i have this hour

i never dream 

 

 

 

 Together

                  
COMMISERATION
—Joyce Odam

Sorrow came to sit with me again,
as many times before,
claiming to be my mother—

again with her old sad story,
her soft tears burning in the light
reflecting every word upon her face.

 

 

 

 One Heart

HEALING
—Joyce Odam

I shall not look again to sorrow
with its bruised wing that I
have pushed away. I am not

its love. I will not let it
stay with me, though it calls me
winter and starves when I

look at it. I am going to be in
love with happiness—with
its safe heart and hands

that flutter
ever-so-softly
about my habit of weeping.  
                          

(prev. pub. in Sorrows, Mini-Chap
by Joyce Odam, 2002)

____________________

GUITAR BLUES
—Robin Gale Odam

i still feel the strings of  
little sorrows i thought were   
long-ago tucked away and buried

warm electric guitar blues, high
and long and wavery

my tight heartbeat 

 

 

 

 On Memory

SELFNESS
—Joyce Odam

Here we go hungering after life again,
despite certain hallways and dark-hung
mirrors where we continually walk toward

and through ourselves
as if the walls never taught us
anything. The least structure failure

and we lose who we are,
depending on memory to recreate us.
Each day is like this,

created and uncreated, life after life,
learning the maze of resistance
which is our illusion of difficulty.

We have not been here before,
though part of it seems familiar.
We trust anew, and mistrust eventually.

Why are we singular and not blent
as the smug words say—part of
a single consciousness?

Though I try to enter your space of being,
I feel my difference. I am blocked by my
selfness. I can only imagine you.

Our thoughts combine, and what was
confusion is now love, though we destroy it
with our inability to know, and be known.

Hungry for touch, we reach
and recoil. What is that sensation
that it devours us with such desperation?

                                                                               
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/25/17; 6/9/20;
10/11/22)

 

Phrase of Yellow

                
WE TALK OF DEATH
—Joyce Odam

We talk of death again,
the way we
shed our lives like
skins,
reptilian years,
each one returning shorter,
wrinkling against our youth,
oh smooth and fair,
we talk of death and death and death
as to define its sinuation,
how it uses
all our eyes and movements
for its worth
ever there,
within us like a thought,
and being part of us,
we share our celebrations
giving it
another drink,
another smoke
another pound of fat,
we court it for
our vain dependence,
take it along
to reminisce and celebrate
our patient death.
                                                        
___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

WAKING UP TO

Birds, singing again, as if to first song of ever,
quietly, attentively, almost apologetic, as if to
say, can I sing now, I am joyous and want to
be heard, I have messages, I have new love
of song, I am forever—I am first song—
first song of ever,    listen,    listen

—Joyce Odam

_________________

It’s that time again (our current Seed of the Week) for fine poetry from Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam, with intriguing visuals from Joyce. Many thanks to the adept Odam Poets for today’s fine fare!

As we slither toward Halloween, our new Seed of the Week is “Danger!”. 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

 

 

 

4 a.m. again…

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Pam Houston will be reading
at Sacramento Poetry Center
tonight, 7pm; and don’t forget
to check each day’s happenings for
Sacramento Poetry Week on
 https://www.sacramentopoetryweek.com/.
For info about these 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
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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; or there's an "Older Posts" button
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by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
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Would you like to be a SnakePal?
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send poetry and/or photos and artwork
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work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
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Just remember:
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for poetry, of course!