Untucked

cold
skin prickling
shivers crawl up
arms traversing
a body in need
of warmth heat
generated from
being tucked

 © Pamela A. Rossow

 

Hedges

dense leafy
greens clamor
towards clouds
growing up and
out pruned boxes
turned labyrinth
mazes hiding truth
obstructing vision

 © Pamela A.  Rossow

Weeds

 

 

 

 

 

she preferred black tip
manicures memories of
misty rains sun soaked
afternoons time stopped
by a spade hands burrowing
feeling earth’s heartbeat

 © Pamela A. Rossow

Well-Done

No thanks, I’ll pass on
fresh bloody messes.

Too spent from dodging raw
chuck, sick of crimson
tinges, no more hot spots
and uneven roasting.

I want life with consistent convection,
less burning, lower temperatures
and end results that are well done.

~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

Wet on Wet

 

past future present
jumbled sketches
like watercolors
blurred by rain
pelting the paper

life’s brushstrokes of
blue red yellow blended
muddied translucent
then dots of pure
pigment spotted

muted highlights that
create textured
perspective and scale
not without value
and positive space

 © Pamela Rossow

RED

 

drums pounds
thrums chest
palpitates passion
life’s downbeat
and syncopates
impulsive
       fibrillation        

© 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 Rossow

Jazz

your first ancestors
had geographic ridges
purple-blue crisscrosses
once slashed gaping open
crimson that mouthed
“wade in the water chillan” 

you called people
responded the blues
bent in depressed
trances third fifth and
seventh like pancakes
flattened by a spatula

you ragged people
shagged under red
lights to a syncopated
rhythm AABBACCC no
more cakewalks just sexy
marches and falling Maple Leaves 

© Pamela A. Rossow

 

 

Spring

  

 Spring

running through fields of
wild flowers fragrant
air plays tag I’m it

perfumed breath-
less near my nape
I have not neglected

the bronze sun on my
face the verdant blanket
underfoot to collapse upon

the secrets you have kept
a first kiss blossoming on a
young girl’s lips stained

with romance she will not
forget that embrace
under your azure skies

© Pamela A. Rossow

 

Atomic Self

he a nuclear
fission exploding
uranium 235
shockwaves
traveling to his
core compressing
then the blast
self’s death
and burning
disintegration

© Pamela Rossow

To Be

the forest spoke to

her hushed voices

murmuring of frigid

cascades and still

blue-green pools

the forest spoke to

her beckoning voices

enticing her to repose

upon fragrant blankets

of pine needles

the forest spoke to

her enchanting voices

entreating her to peel

away papery bark

and just be

© Pamela Rossow

Death

 

 

 

 

I sit living

breathing oxygen

deep into sinewy

recesses.

You sit dying

choking on

carbon dioxide

clouds.

I feel

heavy because

of your shortened

fuse.

You feel

shaky wobbly

raspy not yet

ready.

I sit living

as the irreverent

snuffer puts out your

light.

~Pamela Rossow

Percolator

 

 

 

 

I percolate

bubbling

up over

out for

you.

~Pamela Rossow

Shades

 

 

 

 

he never took them

off glare reduction

his protection from

a white light that

made him squint

almost blinded him

yet he was able to

hide (at least that’s

what he thought)

a shield from the

burning bush that

tried to arrest his

attention away from

narcissistic greed and

hatred that stabbed

twisting itself into a

femoral artery crimson

self-infliction pooling

he never took them

off glare reduction

his protection from

a white light that

made him squint

almost blinded him

yet he was able to

hide (at least that’s

what he thought)

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

Portfolio

she was liquid convertible
bought then sold “securities”
a word not recognized in
her metaphysical vocabulary

terms tossed about like
paper airplanes aimed here
there nose diving into sharp
dips and crumpled equities

result of losses maybe wobbles
in her investor’s confidence or
possibly sheer panic either way
equilibrium shoved off kilter

she was left to question her
worth she realized she was an
asset her price immeasurable
by Wall Street’s standards

he was hit hard when he traded
stock privatized that plummeted
her market value though
rose to astronomical heights

~Pamela 

Home

bases loaded two outs
on deck switch hitter
swinging the air seasoned
with spicy yellow mustard
and tangy sauerkraut
clay disturbed rising as
cleats ready themselves
hamstrings taut calves
tensed oxygen gulped
next up pawing then the
pitch cracking contact ball
sprouts wings flies out of the
park crowd kinetic screaming
energy he runs rounding
bases 1^st 2^nd 3^rd home

Pamela A. Rossow

The Brownings

Okay, I know love letter fest is technically over.  HOWEVER, I could not resist posting two, short letters exchanged between one of the most romantic, literary couples  (Robert and Elizabeth Browning) ever  (in my book THE most romantic, literary couple).  Of course, Elizabeth wrote my favorite poetry collection, Sonnets from the Portuguese, for her husband Robert Browning and I believe them to be the most beautiful poems (especially numbers I, XIV, XX, and the best, XLIII).  So enjoy and keep that passion alive every day, not just on Valentine’s Day!!!!

To Elizabeth Barrett Browning:                                                       

…would I,  if I could,  supplant one of any of the affections that I know to have taken root in you – that great and solemn one, for instance.
I feel that if I could get myself remade,  as if turned to gold,
I WOULD not even then desire to become more than the mere setting to that diamond you must always wear.

The regard and esteem you now give me,  in this letter,  and which I press to my heart and bow my head upon,  is all I can take and all too embarrassing,  using all my gratitude.

– Robert Browning
(1812-1889)

To Robert Browning:

And now listen to me in turn.
You have touched me more profoundly than I thought even you could have touched me – my heart was full when you came here today.
Henceforward I am yours for everything.

– Elizabeth Barrett Browning
(1806-1861)

Poetry Challenge ‘American Gothic’

Poetry Challenge ‘American Gothic’

(This poem is written in response to Lynda’s poetry challenge over at Bookstains, one of two sites she runs. The painting, which many of you probably recognise, is by Grant Wood. Lynda asked people to interpret the painting anyway they wished and to write a poem on their ideas. I kidnapped this idea from Jessica’s Japes.  So, here’s mine!)

 

forget Mary and

your four kids

keep staring at her

perky milk bottles I

swear I’ll find a

new use for that

pitchfork

 

Pamela A. Rossow

 

 

 

Mash Up

Words-

slippery
heartfelt
coy
dissonant
confident
sordid
distant
forgiving
misleading
hopeful
shallow
fertile
lacking
coarse
sincere
malicious
dear
hurtful
pregnant
vulgar
sweet
cultured
barbaric
merciful
forbidding
gracious

Rhetoric-

Pamela A. Rossow

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

Pergola

she stood embellished a
checkerboard of hot
light and cool shadows
crisscrossing her face
she stood allowed coy
breezes to swish her
honey blonde bangs
framing her face
she stood enchanted  by
South American vines
clamoring to adorn her
magenta blazon soul

Pamela A. Rossow

To Wear Rainbows Again

She longed to be
clothed in rainbows –
stained in perfect
hues of red, orange,
purple, yellow, indigo,
green, and violet.

Soaked in dripping shades of
fulfilled promises and
unwavering trust.

She yearned to be
drenched in joy –
illuminated in the perfect
light of glass mosaics.

Emerald, amber, violet,
Egyptian blue, ruby, and 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
rekindled hope.

© Pamela Rossow

Arresting Shadows

she stands swept
hair whipping her
face a moon sliver
glinting off the black
blue waves faint night
light reflected in her
eyes just enough
illumination to arrest
shadows kindle a
spark for tomorrow

©   Pamela A. Rossow

Valentine

Mutilated,
pillaged,
pulverized,
you say?
I beg to differ.
Only gently fingered.
At worst, maybe-
slightly dented.
It’s surely not my fault
the box lacked the little, white slip
that’s supposed to accompany them.
It’s not like they’re all smushed-
just the ones that taste like drunken pina coladas,
tangy, orange creamsicles,
and tart, cherry cordials.
Only two, creamy caramels in the bunch,
can you believe it?
Have some, really-
I don’t mind.
Take them to work then.
Throw them where?
Suit yourself.

© Pamela A. Rossow

Blog

 

 

 

 

I subscribe to you

your RSS feed

emotions hopes

fears dreams spilled

pressed networked

on-line a way to

glimpse bits of

soul keyboarded

into existence

I subscribe to you

your RSS feed

capturing pieces of

raw unedited you

Pamela A. Rossow

Sauntering

feathery greens and hushed
silence greet me expectant
like shushing in the dark
before the flicked light switch
everyone jumping out and
yelling surprise I pause feet
bare padding layer upon
layer upon layer of prickly
needles piney fragrance

perfuming each step I waver
a tree scarred fallen heart-
wood exposed concentric
rings marking early or late
I stand wondering if I missed
the party altogether and peer
closely trying to read the
fir’s aged palm

Pamela Rossow

Potenza

you survived earth’s knee
quaking seismicity over and
over again shaking tremors
shuddered scared ground

blood pooled because of
futile resistance to greedy
boogiemen who subjugated and
humiliated–damn colonizers

you rose above it 2,687 feet under
St. Gerard’s watchful eyes like amulets
sea breeze perfumed comune peering
over the Basento river valley

my ancestors inhaled here made
love here cradled generations here
worked cried died here

all I hold are some color splashed
travel brochures that say your food
is rustic your pottery traditional
your cashmere beautiful

we have yet to meet but when we do
I will love you, wear you, live you

Pamela A. Rossow

Profanity

your smooth rough
hands profaned
me your diminutive
appetite a heresy
flaring only on rare
occasions sacrilegious
eyes Jack Daniels
lit greedy for ten
minute dampened
fireworks

Chrysanthemums

bronze beauty looking

for full sun and enriched

compost prefers zones

3-9 reputedly hardy

dislikes overcrowding and

street lights seeks similar

cultivar to share soil

Pamela A. Rossow

(ha-ha can’t help myself they are my favorite flowers!)

Nikes

 

 

his soles ran many miles
wherever the Westerlies
blew across soft earth
skidding gravel rough
asphalt he was losing
traction treads worn
laces frayed in need of a
park bench a tree stump
a rock anywhere his shoes
could pause rest be still
yet his sneakers had a
mind of their own so
onward they sprinted

© Pamela A. Rossow

Mary Read

she was of plain constitution
plainness masked by strength
and determination bold blunt
as a bloodied two-edged sword
overused in battle conduct
steered by virtue but stained by
the dishonor of her chosen
profession she sailed calm
turquoise waters other times
fought black-blue waves
unstoppable on a quest
her principles would not let
her abandon her treasure pulse
core she strove to find what
was estranged from her
only weakness was her
susceptibility to violent
affection she reasoned her life of
danger on the high seas
was akin to melting emotion
she carried on scanning the
windswept waves for that
object she must steal back

© Pamela A. Rossow

2011

 

 

new year swaddled
pacifier near bottle
warming soft
lullaby hummed

Pamela Rossow

Qi

 

 

 

 

 

steam rises from

cooking rice I inhale

life breath sustaining

energy quiets calms

my chattering mind

moving meditations

fluid motions like

trailing finger tips

through water

pooling tranquility

harmony spiritual

rest

Pamela A. Rossow

Tri Hita Karana

black coral cliffs Pura Luhur Uluwatu

silhouetted seaside against fiery sun

sets  Parhyangan harmony

in motion human to

god

hands conduct the good thing

lips speak the good thing

minds think the good thing

Tri Kaya Parisuda human to

human

earth offering thankfulness

embraces bark branched

arms returns gifts of prosperity

Pelemahan human to

land

Pamela A. Rossow

Pianoforte

she was a pianoforte a
temperament of stringed
tension piano wires and
sympathetic vibrations
originally adjusted to a
fixed pitch she now needed
her intervals aligned her
frequencies modified she
made up for her inharmonicities
with versatility and ubiquity this
way she could maintain a
level plane while
situated on a slope 

©   Pamela A. Rossow

Herbes de Provence

her garden a secret get-a-
way arched trellis to dreams
that came near dawn
silky grasses that caressed
her legs shadowed by towering
seed laden globes golden
drooping under the weight of
mammoth heads flowers that
made her feel small and protected
rich black earth cooled her feet
squished between toes and connected
her to her mother her earth
purplish lavender calming fragrance
the color of sunrise-washed early
morns tinged with twilight blue
savory then fennel with its licorice
sweetness basil her presence
intoxicating clothed in kelly green
thyme can never have too much its fresh
sprigs and tiny leaves awaiting plucking
to be sprinkled over every steaming dish
nights she spent here under a pale
glowing face watching silently as she
slept inhaling perfumed orange blossoms

©  Pamela Rossow

Monsoon

winds reversed
affected by seasons
I’m blown along
the all too familiar
precipitation and
pounding deluges
punctuated by
scorching desert
dryness
sea breezes?
hell no yes to
intense turbulence
drought once
more I’m seared
parched and thirsty

© Pamela A. Rossow

Venom

your highly specialized teeth do
not scare me you nor your hollow
fangs the result of convergent
evolution

while not out of your
strike zone I am immune to your
envenomation cold blooded
slitherer

no prey immobilization here
just self-defense your ecosystem is
not healthy your predatory skills
lacking

your clothing scales forced to burrow
no match for a competitive carnivore
your colors bright do not fool
me

© Pamela Rossow

Off

the t.v. glares in colors and

shapes quick flashes getting

louder LOUDER hit mute then a

silent parade of split second

buy me’s need me’s must have

me’s smiling and cajoling with their

electronic teasing click sleep

count down 40 30 20 10

blackness

Pamela A. Rossow

Hunger Moon

 

 

 

 

a slender hand grazes the

pale moon trembling in

liquid ripples a single

twirling touch caresses a

glinting reflection

dusky waves illumined by

nature’s night light

love’s luminescence

stroked by an adorer

gestures of perpetual

affection

Pamela A. Rossow

Erosion

thankless moments as crystal

dew drops slip one by one

down green veined leaves

falling cascading while

past like black loam

clouds these pools of present

tumultuous deluges pummel

tiny rivulets turning them into

brooks that swell rush the

future hurry time billowing

currents unaware of piffling

trickles the forgotten source

Pamela A. Rossow

What Is

 

 

 

 

To encompass and

to see had

leaped upon him to

stay.  It was a special

pleasure to see things

stretched out,

eaten.  It was a

pleasure and would

not run away

now. Which, like an

iris of an even more

gigantic eye, stared

back at him. Things

opened and he knew

what is

was just the world

changed.  To burn

everything,

everything

he thought.

I’m alive

also

blackened.

Pamela A. Rossow

Autumn’s Spell

Today is one of those beautiful, fall SoFlo days that causes me to spout poetry like October by Frost or To Autumn by Keats. Every since I was a small girl, I was enthralled by the autumn sea breezes turned windy that mussed my hair and toyed with my dress’s hem.

As an adult, when I see the wind blustering through the arecas, the first thought skipping through my mind is whether or not my allergies are going to attack my sinuses and mess with my lungs. But then, memory, that all important muse, prods me into romanticizing fall like I did when I was a child and I am under autumn’s spell once more (armed with Clarinex).

So I can relive those milkweed moments from years ago when I spotted the pods opening and the tiny seedlings with fluff rising like nature’s balloons into the air. I can celebrate the first periwinkle morning glory that graces the fence. I can feel connected to that little blonde haired girl obsessed with growing things, stooping down to get a closer view of the green acorns, rubbing sage between her fingers and smelling it’s savory perfume–I can just be.