Tide Lines

red tide a

You visit me when the rains come.
Sliding in through the rising torrents
beating my windows, in the water
swirling around my ankles.

You can’t help yourself.
There’s something about crushing
waves that are a part of you which make
her eat sand
another’s eyes red from stinging salt water
one more her heart aching from being crashed into again and again.

Your wake leaves behind brown tide
lines with dirty foam, crushed shells,
sand dollars in pieces.

~Pamela

She stood . . .

She stood— fingertips tracing the years clinging to her face as her heart fluttered memories of crimson passions now dormant under layers of white. elderly-woman-sitting-looking-out-window-chalmers-butterfieldAutumn had come download (1)and stripped everything away while winter blustered in with ice and freezing sleet. She felt the chill and pulled her mother’s warmth around her shoulders—a crocheted shield against the biting cold. winter windowWhat was next? She mused—thoughts tumbling about her mind like snowballs rolled carefully by the boys outside her window.

Could they feel it? The seasons slipping past, one by one, as winter melted into spring and spring blossomed into summer and summer gleamed into fall then it all began again.

Did they sense the awakening little by little or did they one day just wake up and everything was different, changed and they couldn’t go back no matter how much they wanted or tried? Elusive childhood as a bouncing red ball downloadthey had once caught and held now bumping its way into another child’s hands further up the road leaving behind whys, puzzlement, and questions. Adulthood pressing in and not waiting for an invitation—churning minds into dollar signs, the future, and seriousness. Concerns trying to crease young brows, yet unlined— still pink from an impromptu baseball scrimmage, damp from last summer’s lake water, and cooled by the dappled sunlight in tree forts. treeShe stood—fingertips trailing the lace hem Lace-White-TT_1_of her Sunday dress as age crinkled around her eyes and settled into laugh lines. She felt it all—and she wondered.

Home

Google Image

she once thought his face
brought her home to sun
speckled shadows that
cooled her and white-hot
blazes that burned within

one glance and her lungs
began drowning in moist
humidity gasping for
the slightest whisp of breeze
coming off the Atlantic

she looked away her home
wasn’t just stifling heat and
scorching sunshine it was
also diving into cerulean and
inhaling freshly cut emeralds

her home welcomed her
his face turned her out
her home comforted her
his face was vacant a
sign that read For Rent

© Pamela Rossow

In the Arms of Morpheus

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Her arms gathered sunrises close
to her, luring in welcomed heat
and searing passions, crimson clouds
and afterglow.

Her arms swept galaxies close
to her, drawing in crescent moons
and silver shadows, indigo skies
and Orion.

Her arms cajoled him move close
to me, beguiling with silken skin
and trailing fingers, entwined in
Morpheus.

© Pamela Rossow

Ablaze

This poem was inspired by the photograph below of a person who happens to be an artist, dreamer, photographer, blogger, motivator and friend. Her self-photo has a golden quality to it and this poem is the result. Now check our her blog at Dangerous Linda. Go on, skeddadle.

Ablaze

she was not content to live in
shadow
as pearls do hidden
away until their luminescent
reveal

she was light so much so that
ordinary
could not surround her
one flaxen glance and it blazed
away

she bathed in brilliance arms wide to
embrace
the ritual cascade golden rivulets of
honey and shining flecks of
wheat

she even dreamt in goldenrod while
moons
of harvest trailed her heart’s flights
keeping the dark at
bay

© Pamela Rossow