Shadows That Grow Too Loud

Tribute 

—Original Artwork by Joyce Odam

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

 

 

OLD MAN LOOKING AT FRUIT
—Joyce Odam

old man
looking at fruit

(pears and peaches and cantaloupe)

in the grocery window

(nectarines and apricots and
the sweet grapes)

the old man’s eyes are as filmy
as saliva

(strawberries, blackberries,
raspberries)

his hands shake
his pockets have no money

(oranges and tangerines
and the yellow apples)

the old man’s hunger
is on his face
like a hate

(honeydew, casaba,
Persian melon)

words he can almost
taste

(pomegranates, plums, bananas)

                                
(prev. pub. in Jeopardy, 1971; Lemon Center for 

Hot Buttered Roll (chapbook by Joyce Odam), 1975; 

and Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/6/10; 12/22/15; 10/5/21)

 

 

 

Looking Back

CLOSET MUSING
—Joyce Odam

There’s my good black dress
way at the back
covered with a blouse.
Why keep it?  It’s so old.
It doesn’t fit. Its shoulders
have a permanent crease
where it has hung for years.
Dry cleaning is not practical
for my life style. I don’t know
anyone who’d want it,
though it cost a pretty penny
in its day.     Is that why
I always give in at the last
to some nostalgic whim
and leave it hanging,
hard to reach
in back of everything?
I used to wear it dancing
with my rhinestones
and my black high heels.
Look at it now, all crushed
and filled with dust.
Pathetic! Next time
I gather stuff to give away
I think I’ll give it up.
I’ll never wear it anywhere.
Oh, mirror, look
at these arms, these hips.


(prev. pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine, Sept. 1996,
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/5/15)

 

 

 

 From Whence We Came

 

dreaming in the dream
distance far away from here
closeness on the heels

ever since the faraway
ever cast the runes of shade

           —Robin Gale Odam

 

 

 

 Singular

 

ONLY CHILD
—Joyce Odam

After CD Jacket, girl with butterfly and two birds

Your hands are too small
to hold all that you desire.
The live butterfly
caught in your hair
will not love you for long.

The tethered swallow
you keep on a string
will escape
back to the wall paper.

The beautifully feathered bird
you hold on a stick
will lose its will to fly away.

You are too innocent for such power—
to keep all that life as yours,
to possess and try to tame—
standing there in all your defiance,
as if you dare not believe me.
                                            

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/20/17) 

 

 

 

Golden

 

I LOVE THE LIE
—Joyce Odam

Darling, I love the lie upon your silken
mouth, your abstract kiss,
the practiced way you mold your syllables.

And I love the way you dwindle into pout
that I must coax with my own kiss
when you must pout me to your way.

And, Darling, I do believe the things you say,
though I watch your eyes, the way you
somehow twist in slight response

and fix your charm
upon me once again with one more lie
of love,   love,   love.

          
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/13/18; 2/12/19;
8/20/24) 

 

 

 

Sabbatical

 

SHADOWS THAT GROW TOO LOUD
—Joyce Odam

Though you repeated what you said, I made
no sense of it. I heard only your voice, the
tone of it, going on and on in some reverie
or question; the way it did not matter if I
listened. You left me finally. Or I left you.
The silence hung thickly in an after-echo.

I wonder what life means to you now?  
Surely you tell of your love affair with
rain, with haunted light, with your deploring.
And now I answer you from a glassy room
of words that break like figurines; like shadows
that grow too loud; like flailing moths in mirrors.

                                                    
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/2/21)

 

 

 

 Promises

 

field of olden blooms
perfume sighing over graves
promises to keep

            —Robin Gale Odam 

(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2017;  
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/23/24) 

 

 

 

Day Of Rest

LIGHT, BURNING THROUGH
—Joyce Odam

It was too much light; I could see everything;
the room swarmed with it, though my eyes

remained closed. My eyelids were too thin.
The light burned through to my trance—this

was not real. I was without power to move
or cry out. I was without power. The light

came down and touched me—traced me
for its knowing of me, as if I were a memory.

Then the dark came back. How much time
had passed? Why was the room so cold?  

It was love, I said, though I felt empty.
The room was shuddering, then went still—

still and heavy. The light fell over me like
a great exhaustion, which I could not explain.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/26/19)

 

 

 

Of The Blues

 

  

MISFORTUNE
—Joyce Odam

After “Misfortune” by Luis Cernuda

Misfortune—that old hag, her gleaming presence,
what she wears to introduce herself, those semi-
precious birds she keeps on risky pedestals, the
charming echoes they have learned.

What does she want of me, I’ve nothing more to
lose or give. I’ve paid my dues to her demands—
those lies she told—those mis-directions that she
gave when she was all cajole and promise.

But now that I see her true face in her own mirror,
I all but lose my nerve : her costume in rags, her
makeup ruined. She turns to me again—this time
contrite—and once again I ask her to save me.

                                                                                                                                    

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/3/19; 9/29/20; 

8/30/22)

 

 

 

The Bridge

 

EPHEMERA TIME KEEPER 

—Robin Gale Odam
 
Now the wolves all look like sheep,
here the keeper at the turn of the hour
with crystalline salt for the trails of tears—

now the bell chime, the allusion of words,
the herald of wind for the meaningless flight,
the rise of a moon to a starless night.

                                       
(prev. pub. in Medusa's Kitchen, 4/25/23) 

 

 

 

Another Way

 

 

WHAT THE BIRD TOLD ME
—Joyce Odam

when it flew so near,
when it brushed my hair,
when it held my eyes

when it framed the air with its wings
and it heard my cry
from the numbness of my mind

and I raised my hand
for it to rest upon
but it had no need

so I held it with my breath
and it almost touched my face
and I did not move or fear

it was the pain,
and the bird told me
to tell the pain to go away

we were mind to mind
with no one near
to say I lied

to say how the bird
took all the darkness
that I could not love, and could not say

                                     

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/24/19; 8/20/24)

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

TOO SOON
—Joyce Odam

This broken sunshine
fitting my hand like nerves . . .
Oh, Light, why have I touched you?
I was wrong to leave the dark.

___________________

 

Joyce and Robin Gale Odam mull over the cost of things today, and our thanks to them for their wonderful poetry and Joyce's fine photos! Our new Seed of the Week is “Spiders”. 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

 

 

 

 —Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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