Tag Archives: Poetry I Like

In My Sky At Twilight ~Pablo Neruda


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


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

 © Pamela A. Rossow



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

 © Pamela A.  Rossow

The Voice

“There is a voice inside of you
That whispers all day long,
“I feel this is right for me,
I know that this is wrong.”
No teacher, preacher, parent, friend
Or wise man can decide
What’s right for you–just listen to
The voice that speaks inside.”

~ Shel Silverstein

Mumbo Jumbo

Don’t give me none of your
newfangled crap your
political mumbo jumbo your
new age ideas popping like
bright flashes inside that
liberal black hole you call a

Spare me your good ole boy
blues and armchair politics
sloshed into your Jack Daniels
served up with “America’s
going to hell in a handbasket”
deep fried with a side of

© Pamela Rossow








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


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
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
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



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

© Pamela Rossow