Tag Archives: poem

Pyrotechnics

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July 4th elements
ignited.

Black powder launched
sky high.

Fuses lit while flash powder
exploded.

Silent trails of raining
stars.

~Pamela Rossow

 

 

 

Photo by Tyler Lastovich on Unsplash

Lingüística

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Quieres
mas.

Necesito noche floreciendo
jazmín y
pelo de
sal marina y
palabras en mis
senos marcandome con
deseo.

~Pamela Rossow

 

 

 

 

Photo by Chua Bing Quan on Unsplash

 

Answers

You didn’t ask but you should know:

My eyes turn green after they rain.
I, too, have shadows.
I choose light.

My heart dives depths into feeling.
It, too, has scars.
I choose love.

My mind sparks neurons in intriguing convos.
It, too, has doubts.
I choose trust.

My soul craves freedom in belief.
It, too, feels abandonment.
I choose openness.

~Pamela Rossow

Flashover

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You weren’t diminutive in your  
sparking. Your flames lit matchsticks 
within me one by one.  
Each flare blazed  
uncontrolled. Charred scars and splinters  
ignited in my stratosphere. 
It was a pleasure to be burned.  
 
~Pamela Rossow 

Under Construction

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They breathed, moved, played, chewed on
knubby edged pencils while poring over
homework within the fractures.

The splinters rained down during
playdates or dinner time or when it was their
turn to load the dishwasher.

The little daggers wedged themselves into
afterschool club meetings and early releases.

They buried into forgotten PE clothes and
missing uniform belts and non-existent
jackets when the weather turned chilly.

Every he said or she said blah blah blah rooted into
easily penetrated epidermis and psyches.

Chainsaws and heavy machinery tearing,
ripping,
smashing,
flattening,
deafening.

Underestimated, ignored and ridiculed, yet
resurrection.

And hammers.
And skill saws.
And structure.

~Pam Rossow

Image by:
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

 

Wild

Photo Credit: The Carroll County Times, Chris Ammann
Photo Credit: The Carroll County Times, Chris Ammann

Hers, a heart wild with
abandon. Reckless – not.

Arms just wide enough to
embrace her Atlantic, legs
long enough to take in moon
silvered walks near waves
colored by night.

A neck sensitive enough to
know a mineral caress,
fingers eager enough to
siphon gritty warmth and hold
smooth treasures gifted by the sea.

Hers, a heart wild with
passion where ocean
blurs sky.

~Pamela

Sharks

Attribution: How to Draw Funny Cartoons http://www.how-to-draw-funny-cartoons.com/cartoon-shark.html
Photo credit: http://www.how-to-draw-funny-cartoons.com/cartoon-shark.html
Words, like knotted muscles,
tense. Wonder if you can feel the
letters jumbling together, backing
up in your throat.

What makes you think I towers
over me? A capital letter? Maybe
you forgot I have one, too. My
name starts with it.

Sounds, like maddened hornets,
rise. Do they sting as they leave
your mouth? Nah, not worried.
Got my antihistamine.

That cacophony, though. Man,
what noise – hard to hear over
pollution rushing through underground
sewers, levels rising.

You forget that my Atlantic is
bigger than your filth. Despite your
spills, it thrives. Creating life in abundance,
cancelling out shore lined trash.

Crashing waves drown out your my and
mine. Washing out to sea your selfish salt
tears and empty beer bottles, bobbing in
blue black riptides.

Treasures remain – handpicked shells with
sunset curves and fragile skeletons of small
creatures. Windblown hair of a tiny one and
a taller one. Even sharks lose their teeth.

~Pamela

Unveiled

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A veil blotting out
even sun specks gripped
tight by your hands

going lax—faint glimmers
then blinding warmth
swimming before
my eyes.

I see and feel day
leaving behind night and
your shrouds.

~Pamela

Conflagration

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Her as oxidizer.

A crushing embrace
heated through.

Stoked by red hot embers
igniting an epic blaze, a light
up the sky bonfire —

eagerly licking up
fuel as greedy flames burned, singed.

Catalysts, flashpoint, then combustion.

When the heat simmered down, a white smoky
haze–aftermath still smoldering. He was
changed.

~Pamela

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

Cerulean

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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

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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

Violet

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

Blue Black

What he couldn’t say in
words he 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,
minus “ment.”

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

Mirror

She reflects white-
bathed in glimpses of
her past, gleaming
gold flecks into
her present.

Precious illuminations-
sometimes darkened,
overcome by a
swirling haunting
mist.

© Pamela Rossow

Ecstasy

It’s my blogoversary. Just like anniversaries, it’s a time to celebrate and reflect. To my blogging friends, thank-you. To my muses, cheers.


She awoke with sun-
rise in her hair, fiery
highlights that stoked
passions and kindled
rapture.

She strolled with mid-
day on her skin, humid
breath that exhaled
damp infatuations and
desire.

She lay down with sun-
set in her eyes, coral
flares glinting twilight
that sparked fever and
ecstasy.

© Pamela Rossow

White Noise

she leaned into
listening-
wondering if the
faint sounds were
his hands smoothing
the pillows-
hauntings or
subconscious-
maybe it was just the
rustling of her gown
against the sheets-
she couldn’t sleep or
tremble away the
brush of the unknown

© Pamela Rossow

The Universe

“In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth . . .”
~Genesis 1:1 (Douay–Rheims Bible)

Could you see from
your celestial heavens
Earth’s axial tilt 23.44°?

Or did you write off the
slant as a slight shake of
the Creator’s wrist, a tremor?

Maybe it was the cosmic
dust so diffracting that
irritated your sight.

Anyway, you should
know that your galaxy is
gravitationally bound-

like the rest of ours. Along
with those stars and inter-
stellar clouds, “dark matter.”

Oh, and your constellation?
One of 88 dubbed “Emu in
the sky.” But it’s true.

Yes, we heard it-your
Big Bang. Really, we did.
Now, there’s just evolution.

© Pamela Rossow

Forget

his eyes
glass reflecting
vacant rooms once
occupied no dog barks
at passers-by from slatted
fences no hydrangeas spill over
borders onto sidewalks his stairway
doesn’t creak memories of silent visitors
treading paths long ago to and fro his attic
forgotten cluttered with shadowy recesses and
memories tucked away in ancient trunks with roses
crumbled given and received as love bloomed precious
lockets house faded photos once fingered by wrinkled hands

© Pamela Rossow

Paper Boat

“please, please,
pretty please,
just one?”

barely audible
a sigh, “just one”
fingers smoothed

© Pamela Rossow

 

[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
(a poem by E. E. Cummings for you both, I love you)
 
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
                                                      i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
 

Darlin’

Darlin’ his voice
600 grit sanded
her smooth.

One word polished
away the sharp
edges.

Pamela A. Rossow

30%

30% chance and
must spin wheel
of fortune goes
round slowing
stopping praying
there’s no c’s, n’s
or r’s _ _ _ _ _ _
no a’s or e’s too
just a bonus round
and solved puzzle

©Pamela Rossow

Ashes of Soldiers

 
 
ASHES of soldiers!
As I muse, retrospective, murmuring a chant in thought,
Lo! the war resumes—again to my sense your shapes,
And again the advance of armies.Noiseless as mists and vapors,
From their graves in the trenches ascending,
From the cemeteries all through Virginia and Tennessee,
From every point of the compass, out of the countless unnamed graves,
In wafted clouds, in myraids large, or squads of twos or threes, or single ones, they
come,
And silently gather round me.Now sound no note, O trumpeters!
Not at the head of my cavalry, parading on spirited horses,
With sabres drawn and glist’ning, and carbines by their thighs—(ah, my brave
horsemen!
My handsome, tan-faced horsemen! what life, what joy and pride,
With all the perils, were yours!)Nor you drummers—neither at reveille, at dawn,
Nor the long roll alarming the camp—nor even the muffled beat for a burial;
Nothing from you, this time, O drummers, bearing my warlike drums.But aside from these, and the marts of wealth, and the crowded promenade,
Admitting around me comrades close, unseen by the rest, and voiceless,
The slain elate and alive again—the dust and debris alive,
I chant this chant of my silent soul, in the name of all dead soldiers.Faces so pale, with wondrous eyes, very dear, gather closer yet;
Draw close, but speak not.

Phantoms of countless lost!
Invisible to the rest, henceforth become my companions!
Follow me ever! desert me not, while I live.

Sweet are the blooming cheeks of the living! sweet are the musical voices sounding!
But sweet, ah sweet, are the dead, with their silent eyes.

Dearest comrades! all is over and long gone;
But love is not over—and what love, O comrades!
Perfume from battle-fields rising—up from foetor arising.

Perfume therefore my chant, O love! immortal Love!
Give me to bathe the memories of all dead soldiers,
Shroud them, embalm them, cover them all over with tender pride!

Perfume all! make all wholesome!
Make these ashes to nourish and blossom,
O love! O chant! solve all, fructify all with the last chemistry.

Give me exhaustless—make me a fountain,
That I exhale love from me wherever I go, like a moist perennial dew,
For the ashes of all dead soldiers.

 ~Walt Whitman

Cobwebs

  

I brush delicate
wisps of silk from
my face gossamer
threads clinging to my
fingers exquisite strands
entwining themselves
around my thoughts
refusing to relinquish
their glistening hold

 © Pamela Rossow

NPD

 

 

 

 

 

Then-
(you, “The Universe,” thought) 

That-
my intellect-
cerebrated
you

my lips-
explored
you

my heart-
thrummed
you 

my arms-
catered
you

my hands-
stroked
you

my legs-
received
you

my breath-
inhaled
you

Now-
(you, “The Universe,” know better)

And-
(she will know too)

 © Pamela A. Rossow

Loving Legacy

sometimes tucked
arms entwined hers
looped through his
crook a lady and
gentleman sauntered

other moments
gentle hands held
her right his left a
living bridge built
spanning 64 years

once in a while her
shoulder brushed his
while they traipsed
side by side a secure
distance between them

always for richer or
poorer in good times or
bad sickness or health
loved and cherished not
even in death did they part

~Pamela



Tarte Au Citron

cool sterling twirled
between his fingers
before plunging once
twice three times

deliberate diving into
sunlit groves coming
up for air chewing zest
that colored his teeth

yellow he paused inhaled
life’s fragrance savored
her plummeting again into
crème Chantilly whipped

perfection dark vanilla
dreams melting on his
tongue while he mused a
tender butter crust

Pamela A. Rossow

GPS

you
managed to fall
off the grid despite the
constellation of satellites
orbiting the earth 24 to
be precise

you
outwitted the radio
signals and triangulation
transmitting calculations
pinpointing exact
locations

your
escape a troposphere
delay or signal multipath
maybe a receiver clock
error no way intentional
degradation

me
a casualty of prior Selective
Availability most likely
in denial assuming there’s
a legit reason for your
exit

© Pamela A. Rossow

Flirt

 

 

 

 

 

suggestive with-
out amore casual
advances and
superficial intent
no breach of social
norms mere dallying
with a major
organ

Pamela Rossow

STOP

 

commanding white

letters atop a fire

engine red blazing

polygon

six edges to fall

off six vertices to

climb an alert often

stolen

vandalized by those

who give the finger

to perceived lost

momentum

a sign implying mobility

reminder of imminent

intersections and giving

way

to those in motion a

symbol when ignored may

lead to dangerous

assumptions

Pamela A. Rossow

折り紙

delicate paper not cuts
glue or tears simply folds
tucks creases an adorer’s
fingers shaping fragile
symbols of  devotion

Pamela  Rossow


Bench in a Park at Night

splintered wood smoothed by
numerous visitors seat for a
watcher who rests under
night’s velvet throw
round waning gibbous
glows above shadowy
water unfolding as metallic
waves lick the shore
harmonious order murmurs
serenity aligns my universe
pervades thoughts quiets
the humming of my mind

Pamela A. Rossow

Christmas Mourning

a father stands gravely
still waiting for his son to
return at last his last good-
bye

a sea of blue stands gravely
still waiting for his son to
return at last the last good-
bye

a country stands gravely
still waiting for her loved ones to
return at last praying there’s no
last good-
bye

Pamela  Rossow


Rain

atmospheric condensation
falling liquid precipitation
running down my face making it
hard to see coalescence and
cumulonimbus banding
blurring

Pamela A. Rossow

Mountain Spirit

specter mist blurs
obscure summits
evergreen quilt
tossed over steep
slopes comforts
Rockies’ soul
aqua ripples shatter
azure glass  leaving
mirrored slivers
ethereal encounter
despite prickly
branches  icy
pools

Pamela Rossow

Tattoos

 

That’s how I roll
Home. Spoon-
ing cream of chicken over
Sweet Toma-
toes barefoot. Fort
Piercing castle
walls.
Sun rise, Ray-
Bans liver and peas.  On-
line bank account
and letters
stamped upside
down, side-
ways to the right.
Jetta course marking
miles, yesterday-
today, tomorrow.
Dolphins, salty air, c-
weed.  Moon rise, life guard
stand or love’s
seat.
Pamelarossow@yahoo.com
peppered with
772. Dork in sun
dress whacking golf
balls steering
cart off
course.
July Bourne-nursing
Qatar, Albuquerque,
Afghanistan.
NM anchoring hot
air balloon fire
works to one boy’s
soul.
Boxers smiling high
and tight.
Sweetest
Thing making
fajitas singing-
country, cabins in
fall.
Hawaiian Tropical
nights, crimson
roses, Ferrero
Roche making It’s
A Wonderful Life.  Lime
wiring me to rolled tooth
paste tubes.
Gargettos far from
Bland-
ing spicing up summer
heat, igniting
passion, burning remember-
ances, blue and
black.

Pamela A. Rossow

Euphotic Zone

full frontal no sidelong
peep or half obscured
glance that strains my
eyes want you close
centered no mirrored
reflection or portrait on
the wall just a clear
view bold strong
blue my eyes
riveted won’t turn
away futile to resist
you finger my
soul call me I will
come and never
leave your salty embrace

         ©  Pamela A. Rossow

Dry Ice

bleak winter days take it out of the
freezer lay it on the counter to
thaw icicled moment frostbitten
tucked away years ago behind Green
Giant sweet peas and vacuum
sealed chicken breasts a memory frozen
solid melting pooling tiny rivulets
dripping onto tiled floor a remembrance
room temperature growing hotter
reach out touch feel its warmth the
grainy velvet beneath entwined feet
late afternoon fading sunlight
splintering rough blistered boards
salty air cooling orange creamsicle
sun slipping down on her black-blue
bed sea’s musings reaching for
her shore gentle music soothing two
needy engulfed in a white mineral laced
embrace repelling shadows flitting
flirting near lovers spotted out in opaque
depths far from turquoise shallows
discreet distance nestles between
hands no longer touching not groping
scorched pull back grab aluminum
foil oven mitts wrap it toss
it back into the frigid depths

© Pamela Rossow