Source


Google Photograph

washing over me
and flooding my being a
welcomed liquid embrace
a cocoon enveloping my
eyes nose ears a blurring of
senses floating me crosscurrent
from the estuary to that spot of
freckled sunlight glinting off
limpid waters where leafy canopies
in mirrored reflections tease rippling
the place where You I first sprung

© Pamela Rossow

Monday Memories

Since my friend, Mary, over at Living with Food Allergies and Celiac Disease, started Monday Memory (which takes place the last Monday of the month), I thought it was the perfect day to reminisce (of course, it’s not the last Monday of the month but, hey, you should know me by now)

Nearly all my best, childhood memories include my family. Sun soaked, water logged days spent swimming in Non and Pop’s pool with my brother, mom, and dad, inhaling the Intercoastal with its pungent, sulphur smell that smacked my sinuses, stalking the brown water, dockside, hoping to see a silver eel streak by.

Memories that also involve the Atlantic Ocean which was just a short walk across A1A from their condo, the mysterious body of water that housed millions of varieties of life.  Whose beaches I lay upon under moonlight, motionless, transfixed, watching as the dark, shadowy sea turtles came ashore to dig nests and lay their eggs. The buoyant salty waves that lapped at my soul. Tides which pulled life’s negativity, ugliness, harshness out to sea till they became little specks on the horizon.  

Just some of the magical powers of memory–like a small town revival with its hallelujahs and deception entangled under one tent.   Fortunately for me (and something most kids take for granted), I only experienced the Messiahs during childhood–the joys and carefree days which blurred into years that formed me like wet sand in the hands of a master sculptor. 

My being, my core, my inner child is grainy, sun streaked, and dampened by salt spray. My remembrances which I keep dusted and lovingly displayed in my heart are happy and messy. They leave sandy footprints behind as they traipse through the years to find me where I am now. They slip into my dreams and cover me in beach sunflowers. They resurrect my beloved Nonnie and Pop-Pop whose wrinkled hands stroke my sun bleached hair, whose dark, Italian eyes speak love, whose lips utter “mange” and “I love you.”

My memories are my buried treasure, coin upon golden coin, hidden from the surface, yet, shallow enough to dive for whenever life becomes overwhelming or hateful or unforgiving. They are my secret to survival. They are. . .and I am.

 

 

 

Tragedy’s Scream

The sounds of tragedy are everywhere:  howling wind, slamming water, splitting earth, cancer’s mutterings, growling of bloated bellies, clinking of bottles, jabbing of needles, mothers’ crying, and much, much more.  What do we do when these sounds become faint?  Distant?  Far away whispers of an event or series of events that happened to “them,” “him,” or “her?”  Do we keep our masks of indifference on, tuck our legs and heads in and retreat into our shells? Or do we allow sparks of empathy to combust within our minds?  This ignition affecting quick reactions of assistance to “our” global family?  What do we DO when we hear tragedy scream?

 

 

Electrocution

 

 

 

 

he decided against the

gallows there was no

water in his soul so

drowning was out

he buzzed with electric

energy lightening bolts

fought it out on his face

frown smile smile frown

his fingers unwittingly

zapped those he touched

searing burns white-hot

sizzle his perfect ending

Pamela A. Rossow

To Wear Rainbows Again

she longed to be
clothed in rainbows
stained in perfect
hues of red orange
indigo yellow blue
green violet soaked
in dripping shades of
fulfilled promises and
unwavering trust
she yearned to be
drenched in joy
illuminated in perfect
light of glass mosaics
emerald amber violet
Egyptian blue ruby glowing
in incense colors of
answered prayers and
unshakeable faith
she needed to be
held in love
clasped in perfect
arms of the one with
fire water wind
soothed
in the embrace of
eternal solace and
re-kindled hope

Pamela A. Rossow