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.

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In My Sky At Twilight ~Pablo Neruda

sunset

In my sky at twilight you are like a cloud
and your form and colour are the way I love them.
You are mine, mine, woman with sweet lips
and in your life my infinite dreams live.

The lamp of my soul dyes your feet,
the sour wine is sweeter on your lips,
oh reaper of my evening song,
how solitary dreams believe you to be mine!

You are mine, mine, I go shouting it to the afternoon’s
wind, and the wind hauls on my widowed voice.
Huntress of the depth of my eyes, your plunder
stills your nocturnal regard as though it were water.

You are taken in the net of my music, my love,
and my nets of music are wide as the sky.
My soul is born on the shore of your eyes of mourning.
In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begin.

~Pablo Neruda

Cerulean

cropped-ocean-2.jpg

I drank you in—
swam in your
oceans
dove to your
depths
kicked to your
surface.

I inhaled cerulean—
tasted salt on my
tongue
embraced gritty
warmth
wrapped myself in a
crashing embrace.

You were
infinite—
until your finiteness.

~Pamela

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

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 A. Rossow

Ornament

ornament

An ornament upon
my tree you are-
not.

More like ice crystals
stinging and bitter cold,

a biting wind tearing
through a flimsy sweater,

jagged pieces of snow
globes broken, stabbing.

An ornament upon
my tree you are-
not.

© Pamela Rossow

Ode to Olive Oil

golden rivulets pool
glinting an autumnal
haze making it
difficult to see
anything but amber
apparitions

© 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

Always remember

There are times we are compelled to ride waves of emotion as they appear—whether we want to or not. Tonight is one of those times. I am as ready as I ever will be. I trust my doctor, the medical staff and my own body’s capability of healing. Yet there are these thoughts and feelings that accompany this process that I can’t just brush away. Actually, I am surprised by them since they seemed to have quietly surfaced when I wasn’t paying attention.

I have had some exciting moments in my life like learning how to ride my bike with no hands or making my first meal from scratch and having everything turn out not burned tasty or holding my nephew and niece as babies or making Dean’s list or co-authoring a book or meeting the Dalai Lama.

However, none have compared to the births of my two beautiful children. I can still remember what it felt like to have them kick inside my belly, the late night tangerine raids as cravings hit, looking at their little faces for the first time, the  nights cradling a sick baby and all of the precious time spent watching them emerge into the incredible people they are. I wouldn’t change a thing.

This is the end of an era of sorts. While I knew that 2 was the perfect number of children for me and I am no longer as young as I sometimes feel, there’s something about knowing that this is it—it’s done, over, kaput. Along with the knowing are twinges and hauntings that serve as flashbacks and we wonder, “Has that much time really passed?” “Are we really about halfway done with our lives?” “Can our kids really be teens?”

So we look to the future. I will still have the capacity to give birth—just in a different way. My muses still gaze at me from a close distance, swirling words and ideas and metaphors into my heart and carrying me along on their whimsical flight. I will feel the contractions once more and know the fiery love and intense passion that birthing brings, and I will remember, always remember.

Violet

you came to me in
autumn
violet flowers in
hand weeping
petals

Passionate Penchants

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