Entering the Mountain

 Sky Field Mountain 

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

 

 

SIXTH SENSE
—Joyce Odam

Something waits to be found. I feel it,
slow myself to be ready.

I sense the presence. Whatever lurks
out-waits me.

It is the edge,
and I am the center.

It intuits me—
as if I am a spiral.

How will I know if I am caught—
there is only the idea—

the sensation. It is watchful.
I am moving outward—inward.

                                     
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/28/11; 6/28/22)


 

 

 

A Curiosity

 

INSIGHT
—Joyce Odam
After “Silence” by William Carlos Williams

Something as silent as a whir of thought
in its passing—

as bird shadow, peripheral,
and slow—

as the moment is slow
in its impression—

what else is there to note
and lose before the loss is realized?

                
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/15/16;
4/6/21; 6/4/24)

 

 

 

Soaring

on the wind a bird
just above the beryl hills
then a memory

            —Robin Gale Odam


(prev. pub. in Brevities, September 2016;  
Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/5/23) 

 

 

 

Painting the Clouds

PORTENT
—Joyce Odam

The air is darkening,
will it rain?

The air is heavy
and has a blue sensation.

And the trees are swaying,
wetly pending, pending,

and the premonitions
are filling up with pain.

 
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/29/19;
9/20/22; 12/19/23) 

 

 

 

A Rustling

CONTRASTS
—Joyce Odam

My house, howling.
Sunlight in loose thin patterns.
The intense stillness of the curtains.
The cat in a deep sleep.
The air closing like fur around my thick breathing.
The motion and non-motion.
A future closing upon a warning.
Or maybe just a winter.
Simple as that.
No premonition.
No mystery.
The cat curled once around herself.
My intense listening.
Time pulled in all directions.
The sunlight giving up.
The wind like a lost voice.
My house straining not to answer.
The way all things resolve to some beginning.
The way a page holds words.
The way a door seems to want to let someone in.
Someone not there.
The way I brace for welcome.
The cat gone out of herself.
Her fur bristling.

            
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/23/01;
10/24/17; 6/14/22) 

 

 

 

Nightfall

EXTRACT  

—Robin Gale Odam
After “Truth Serum” by Naomi Shihab Nye

for the measure of ordinary suffering,
for the commonplace, for the humble—

thunderheads towering, the curse
furling itself against the dark morning

echo calling back for the wind,
thin clouds    wisping    wisping

from the night flower, perfume
of a petal lifted in the breeze

over the red fire, yerba buena steeping
for comfort and for the resting of sorrows

ancestors loved us in their vision,
eyes lowered—knowing our names


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/14/24)

 

 

 

Touch

PASSING A FIELD OF STAR THISTLE
—Joyce Odam

Who would wade there—
though the field is handsome with light-play
and etch of texture—

even beautiful at mid-day—
in full sun—when it glints and grabs the eye
with its sharpness—

the merest sway of breeze rubbing
thistle against thistle with a scratching sound
that the eye takes as a warning.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/10/12)

 

 

 

Night Blues

out of arid night
legion of migrating winds
morning patina

    —Robin Gale Odam


(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2020)

 

 

 

Behind the Clouds

RUMOR AS TRUE
—Joyce Odam

What is this force of blueness
that comes from everywhere,
that we know will swallow us.

Look how it is forming—   
becoming a climate.

It knows where we are.
It has not yet made a decision.
Come, let us dress for the weather.

                                 
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/8/22;
4/12/22; 12/5/23) 

 

 

 

Whither Goest Thou

 

SONG FOR ASHES
—Joyce Odam

Go easily, Father.
You are so light
and there is a
gentle breeze lifting.

Soft on the beautiful air
a piper sound is returning.
All of the other children
have entered the mountain.
Forget your lameness
and your mother’s warning.

I have watched you play
the game of old too long.
Do not let my tears
delay you.
                   

(prev. pub. in Pyramid, 1970 [Hellric Publications,
Belmont, Massachusetts]; Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/19/12)

 

 

 

Empty 

 

 

SEARCH THE WIND
—Joyce Odam


Know this of me, that I will search the wind for 


your last touch. I will become a scavenger of


every breeze for something of you I have known. 

 



Often I hear compassionate grass lean to a sound 


and mourn against the soil in ravaged listening, 


then sigh against my legs and tell me you are here.



 

Our energies converge. Nothing of what we are to 


one another is spent, but borne through all the 

filters 
of awareness. 



 

My hands enclose the living emptiness to treasure 


you; the bending of my fingers makes a sound of 


love upon the wind for you to hear. My pulse works 


thunder. 



 

The chasm of our distance storms with angry love, 


and I can feel you miss me in the lashing of all

grow
ing things. There is a wailing in the air when 

love 
shreds on the pangs of loneliness. 

 



Nothing is lost. I answer with a yielding you will 

feel 
upon the wind’s return.

(prev. pub. in Prairie Poet, 1963;
Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/31/16; 6/28/22)

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE SIGN-OFF HYMN ON TV
 —Joyce Odam

Once
late at night

we wept
in each other’s arms

and you
comforted me

for a reason
other

than
why I wept, and I wept the harder…
                              

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/5/18)

___________________

The Odam poets (Joyce and Robin Gale) have let loose the winds of warning today (our Seed of the Week), and our thanks to them for this silvery, chilling poetry so appropriate for the season.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Midwinter Moonlight”. 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

 

 

 

 Midwinter Mocha
—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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