In the Arms of Morpheus


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

Pamela A. Rossow

Sheddin Petals


Even as your
petals fell
their perfume
still fills our


 R.I.P. Kayla
We remember your life.



An ornament upon
my tree you are-

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-

© Pamela Rossow

Young Love


young love
shedding petals

Ode to Olive Oil

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

© Pamela Rossow

Apparently I’m a Swinger . . .

Apparently, I’m a swinger. I didn’t choose this label. It has more to do with birthright due to a certain, southern geographical location.

There are perks to being a swinger: there is more excitement in my life as I pass by people smiling and waving signs, cars honk not just out of annoyance but because they are supporting the smiling, sign waving people, there are rallies to attend, presidential debates to be had in nearby locales and there is pervasive excitement on a particular Tuesday that arrives every four years.

So here’s to another election and to living in Florida. I’m celebrating my native Floridian status in my state which typically makes headline news—hanging chads, anyone?

If you haven’t voted yet, there’s still time. Get out there, fellow Americans. While you’re at it, have some fun like the guy who cheered today as he headed into the polls. You know I cheered back.

Among all of the divisiveness, bad mouthing and annoying political ads, it really is cool to be an American and have our votes counted. Remember the words of Larry Sabato, “Every election is determined by the people who show up.” Swing state or not, show up.


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.


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

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

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

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

© Pamela Rossow

Northern Sky by Nick Drake

Resting, healing, listening–this song carries me back somewhere into the mist of childhood.

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.


you came to me in
violet flowers in
hand weeping

Passionate Penchants

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