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
Resting, healing, listening–this song carries me back somewhere into the mist of childhood.
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.
What he couldn’t say in
words he still said with his
lips, hovering over her heart
pounding out rhythms in
E C D E F E C.
He skimmed near closed
eyelids that dreamt in liquid blue-
he and she bathed in midnight,
feeling their way along pebbled shores,
staying far from the warmth and false
security of sandbars, away from the
blue black where they once treaded
ice water, going under when swells
broke over them.
He toyed near ears
open, waiting for
exhalations of loving
breath filled with abandon,
He searched her intently,
diving then coming up for
air, thinking he’d find the
solace he sought, believing
she secreted away his
talisman somewhere in her
deep curves and gentle
illumination, that she held an
amulet to heal his blue black.
He realized too late she did not
hide the magical powers he
sought to soothe him, to bind
the darkness that plagued
him, bruised him, tormented him.
He pulled away seeking, travelling
past the pebbled beach’s gleam and
sandbars warm till he caught a wave,
riding the blue black till he became no
more than a dark spot on the horizon.
© Pamela Rossow
Sunrises, sunsets, not being “Freshly Pressed,” your dog giving a nose to tail shake after getting The Bath and consequently soaking you, reality TV, pouring ketchup by hitting the “57” on the Heinz bottle 3x’s with the heel of your hand, rock-paper-scissors-shoot solving any dilemma including which shoes to wear for your power meeting, fish faces on Facebook, gravity, NHL lockouts, autumn coming every year followed by winter followed by spring followed by summer—repeat, scantrons that require No.2 pencils, Lindsay Lohan and jail, sunburns and fair skin, your cat is always, always smart and you are very, very stupid, Starbucks, people who disappoint, people who are always, always there for you, the look the smell—of books, splinter removals that hurt, man flu, the rat race and politicians who will always talk in circles.