When your woman is exhausted, hold her— big spoon to little spoon.
When your woman is overwhelmed, sit her down and place a warm mug of tea in her hands.
When your woman is stressed, wrap your arms around her shoulders and whisper, “Everything will be okay.”’
When your woman is in a dark night of loneliness, bring her in close and hug her tightly, letting her know you closed the windows and the doors to the world.
~pr
Good girls don’t— uncross their legs at whim, look you in the eye and say no, raise their voices, ignore breadcrumbs when they’re hungry for a sit down seven course white gloved three star Michelin meal, frown when pissed, cry when frustrated, hasta la vista when attacked.
They do—smile and wave.
~Pamela Rossow
They pegged you for print.
You spilled velvet billets-doux in tangled cursive.
~Pamela Rossow
Orange signs glared, “Danger. Construction area. Hard hats required.”
[They weren’t kidding]
~Pamela Rossow
You are— not just moonlight gleaming in.
You inhale star dust and exhale a universe.
~Pamela Rossow
Cricket choirs halt— a train rumbles through, metal on metal, freight cars blurring.
The sound permeated a childhood cocoon of sleepovers— the guest room with the flowery cotton sheets, fragrant carved rose soaps for everyday use, a yellow tiled kitchen with ruffled curtains that framed the Atlantic, freshly baked cake cooling on the sunshine striped table, meatballs in sauce bubbling on the stove, newspaper pages turning, boats sailing past, all encompassing hugs, sun kissed skin and warmth that only came from four arms, two hearts and so much love, both with a long trail of ancestors hailing from a city nestled in the Southern Italian charm of Basilicata.
I remember.
~Pamela Rossow
You dove crystalline depths rose kissing your neck softly.
~Pamela Rossow
You loved the ocean, too.
You were content on the sidewalk— Statuesque even, peering out at blue black waves crashing, receding.
I sprinted forward— crying out with joy, Watching my toes sink into foamy sand near breaking waves, Inhaling cerulean.
~Pamela Rossow
I waxed you while you waned.
93,876, 295 miles away from the sun.
~pr
You may have mutilated my soul.
I didn’t bleed out.
My pen—not dry.
~pr
If today the morning sun rose & illuminated your heart’s break,
If the hot shower poured onto your chest tight with grief,
If morning turned late and a spring breeze whispered cosas dulces in your ear,
you will feel
s
h
a
t
t
e
r
e
d
yet know you loved— whole heart.
~Pamela Rossow
Our arms stretched
c o n t i n e n t s.
They weren’t long
enough.
~Pamela Rossow
My hair tangled in
your
fingers.
It was not enough to lay
beside you—burned by
your
fire.
My soul sought
your reverence
wrapped in
skin and
bones.
~Pam Rossow
_____________________
Her heart wrapped
itself round and
grasped
tight.
Moonlight illuminated
her face as she
clung.
Five hours
till
dawn.
~Pam Rossow
Your monotone had no
spice.
No rise or
fall.
Just triple flats.
Vernors without
fizz.
Crystal without
heat.
Café con leche with no
kick.
~Pam Rossow
1+1+1+1=4.
1+1+1+1+1=lies.
1+1+1+1+1+1=heartbreak+joy.
1+1+1+1+1+1-3=relief+hell+freedom.
~Pam Rossow
I stayed up until dawn’s
rays lullabied the
moon to
sleep.
I needed to hear your
soul whistling in and
out of your
lungs.
I listened to hear your
spirit punching air and karate
chopping grim
reapers.
~Pamela Rossow
Flashing lights and rumbling
engines roaring to
life never fazed
you.
Wailing sirens and quick
glances at rainbow
maps were all in a day’s
work.
Like father like daughter—
Not
quite.
Your 911s made my heart merengue,
butterflies wing through my
guts, and
acid crest in my
throat.
Even though I have your
eyes and my
voice doesn’t
crack.
~Pamela Rossow
I thought you were a rocket— a Comet actually.
Some smoke bombs, a few
sparklers later, a lotta pressure.
Then— a loud
bang.
~Pamela Rossow
You left with my
roses—
crimson petals
trailing,
perfumed reminders of what I
lost,
amorous whispers of what is to
come.
~Pamela Rossow
Photo by Gabriela Gutierrez on Unsplash
Mama always said not to play with
fire or else I’d get
burned.
I didn’t know she meant
guys with good hair, straight teeth and
insincere eyes who smoothed in then
ran off with your roses.
I didn’t know she meant
hungry men with voracious
compliments who slid into DMs and tried to
slip into your pussy.
I didn’t know she meant
if you asserted yourself and said no to the good
hair guys and the hungry men and the
winking older ones you’d be no fun or a tease.
I learned she meant
when you grow deep love inside you that
spills out to cover people who feel abandoned or
unloved or not good enough your flame can burn so bright.
Maybe then you will find an honest
man with okay hair and loving hands who
feeds your soul and protects your
heart and burns you with light.
~Pamela Rossow
You jumped rhythms in ways never seen before—
V-tach,
V-fib,
AFib,
a wild heart.
You never liked to be center of
attention yet—
code blue(s).
Chaotic electrical impulses and
scars met—
tenacity,
Ironman,
AED,
living.
~Pamela Rossow
Photo by Dallas Reedy on Unsplash
She didn’t notice the
insincerity in his
smile.
She offered her heart and
shadow swallowed it
whole.
He couldn’t see—
moonlight in her
eyes,
galaxies on her
breasts,
shooting stars between her
thighs
because he burned only with
sun.
~Pamela Rossow
Photo by Jose De Queiroz on Unsplash
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
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
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
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
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
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash
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
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
They were solid-
sunlight and energy
wrapped up in liquid
until tiny flames
became infernos.
Burning an orange
hot, frenzy.
Until steam
smothering vapors
put out fuel.
Silence then
ash.
~Pamela
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
golden rivulets pool
glinting an autumnal
haze making it
difficult to see
anything but amber
apparitions
© Pamela Rossow
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
you came to me in
autumn
violet flowers in
hand weeping
petals
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
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
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
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
“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
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
“please, please,
pretty please,
just one?”
barely audible
a sigh, “just one”
fingers smoothed
© Pamela Rossow
she dreamt in
whispers hushed
sonnets that lulled
her soul soothed
her spirit quilted
her heart
© Pamela Rossow
she bathed in
romance dipping
her toes in serendipitous
bubbles that swelled emotions
as playful waters washing
over her swallowing
her in a soaked
embrace
© Pamela Rossow
It was not enough to be
drenched in your sun
showers, to have your
fingers trail moonlight
through my hair, for your
blazing lips to lock noon
heat between us.
I needed more than
galaxies between my
thighs, daybreak in
your smiles, starlight
in your eyes. I tasted
forever on your tongue,
heard always in your
heartbeat, outlined we
on your chest.
It was enough to be cast
in shadow, to have my
sundial blotted out by your
clouds, to see the negligible
pebbles in the hourglass, to
know the darkened cemetery
in your mouth was too much.
Pamela Rossow
digging climbing her feet grazed pink cotton
candy dipped into aqua oceans she flew up
climbing high above “what’s for dinner”
and “due to insufficient funds” she
soared backward into squishy
lake bottoms netting bass
she breezed forward
past “invoices are
due”
then
she swooped
in reverse finding
herself planted firmly
in childhood green she knelt
down “ready, set, HIKE” toes
in the air again propelling towards
treetops skimming feet boisterous breath
not wanting magic memory motion to just stop
© Pamela Rossow
evening fell
landing amid
fireflies and
moonbeams
© Pamela Rossow
he kissed her
crushed rose
mary lèvres
drank of her
lemon balm
swilled her
mint tincture
awaited her
aromatic
sigh
© Pamela Rossow
she was all peonies and
candlelight how does
your garden grow with
twilight in her hair
flitting about in lace
her voice sterling tapping
crystal
she was all peonies and
candlelight how does
your garden grow with
twilight in her hair
blossoming about in rose
stained aprons lemons in
pockets
© Pamela Rossow
her face was
a poem or many
maybe more like
prose nouns clung
to her eyelashes verbs
wet her lips articles tickled
her nose metaphors grazed her
neck exciting the stanzas lurking
behind her ears while off-rhymes
tangled themselves in her hair framing
what lay beneath her anthology’s surface
© Pamela Rossow
I watched a tiny
moth dive and dip
towards fluorescent
mercury its wings
illuminated by artificial
watts and wants enticed
teased coaxed by glaring
brightness only to burn
© Pamela A. Rossow
Life hits
hard I take
cover under
snowy blankets,
sailing cumulus,
fragrant evergreens,
and stained glass skylights.
© Pamela Rossow
“The naive judgment of the dreamer on waking assumes that the dream – even if it does not come from another world – has at all events transported the dreamer into another world.”
The Interpretation of Dreams
~By Sigmund Freud
You tried to take away
my wish fulfillment. You
dissected it bit by bit until
it became broken into pieces
of quantitative analysis,
sterile bits of soul laid bare
upon your theoretical
frameworks.
I allowed you to strip me,
leaving my subconscious
naked, the entire time believing
in your precepts, trusting in
your self-professed science,
becoming a hypothetical
experiment.
How could you have known
anything of my candy colored
absurdities, my twilight bathed
inspirations, my laurel hopes, my
Amazon desires? You did not speak
my dream language. Your muteness
sliced my emotions with surgical
precision.
If only you had cared to know
something of my autumnal eyes,
my emerald amulet, my perpetual
shores, my beating waves, my cerulean
depths. You did not feel my swells.
Your resolute bias steeled
cool.
Pamela Rossow
she was all
in no cheating
no folding
she had to play
her hand win
or lose life was a
series of five cards
kings and deuces
she refused to quit
because there was
no repeat royal
flushes or full
houses she picked
up her cards and
waited for the flop
she was all
in no cheating
no folding
© Pamela Rossow
green and gleaming it falls
tumbling from its leafy place
secreted away from grasping
hands and biting mouths
green and gleaming it falls
with every bounce a marring
bruise as downward it hurls
towards earth a final jarring
bump then rolling stop the
view from down to up is far
but not so distant that creamy
yellow blossoms go unnoticed
fragrant beauties yet untainted by
the ravages of avarice and voracity
© Pamela A. Rossow
You came with Orion in
your eyes, sweeping me
into a brightly lit nebula.
My tears sprinkled among
your atmosphere, birthing
stars.
You came with warm breath,
exhaling oxidants. I, as fuel,
inhaled you, flaring heat and a
chain of exothermic reactions
CH4 + 2 O2 → CO2 + 2 H2O
+ energy.
You came with passion in
your lips, lingering, causing my skin to smolder while exciting electrons in a pure white frenzy of
eros.
~Pamela Rossow
washing over me
and flooding my being a
welcomed liquid embrace
a cocoon enveloping my
eyes nose ears a blurring of
senses floating me crosscurrent
from the estuary to that spot of
freckled sunlight glinting off
limpid waters where leafy canopies
in mirrored reflections tease rippling
the place where You I first sprung
© Pamela Rossow
I’m excited to introduce a blogger friend whose poetry I have admired for some time. She agreed to guest post and share an original poem from her collection. She is an talented artist who weaves beautiful imagery and creativity into her poetry. She writes about relationships, nature, love, lost loves, and the bottom line? She moves me! Check out her site at glittering soot on her eyelashes and show her some love!
i flow in gold rivulets
alike a slowly setting sun,
skin tingling, lost in blistering air
of the never tomorrows and never agains.
we gulp it down,
unwillingly,
laughing,
saline waters still trapped in alveoli
aftertaste of sea spray on the lips
and
i remember all that you were
and all that you weren’t.
© glittering soot on her eyelashes
we never really lose lost loves.
the moral of the story? cut the thread you torture yourself with every once and again or sleep soundly knowing you managed to love again.
Darlin’ his voice
600 grit sanded
her smooth.
One word polished
away the sharp
edges.
Pamela A. Rossow
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
staccato notes swirl
round two hiding
between bar lines
attempting a grand
staff she a trembling
treble he a bold bass
together no rests just
a half note plus a half note
trying to make a whole
© Pamela Rossow
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
Need to be
kicked in
thrown in
slammed in
dunked in
hit in
long as they
make it
in.
Pamela A. Rossow
Shared at the Thursday Poets Rally (Week 38).
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
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
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
suggestive with-
out amore casual
advances and
superficial intent
no breach of social
norms mere dallying
with a major
organ
Pamela Rossow
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
delicate paper not cuts
glue or tears simply folds
tucks creases an adorer’s
fingers shaping fragile
symbols of devotion
Pamela Rossow
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
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
new year swaddled
pacifier near bottle
warming soft
lullaby hummed
Pamela Rossow
you me an original
GFI less Vidal Sassoon
plunged into a filled claw
foot tub hot wires no tripped
circuits just voltaic juiced
electricity intensity
measured in amperes
possible lethal malfunctions
yet chances taken because
resistors fail when up
against passionate inductors
Pamela A. Rossow
she stood a child amidst
waving grasses a cupped
butterweed flower in her
hands slowly she closed
her eyes letting the
azure mist of the skies
drench her soul gently
she began to pluck each
petal a flaxen butterfly
fluttering to the ground
descending in a graceful
dance he loves me he
loves me not he loves
me he loves me. . .
she paused eyes
closed
Pamela A. Rossow
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
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
atmospheric condensation
falling liquid precipitation
running down my face making it
hard to see coalescence and
cumulonimbus banding
blurring
Pamela A. Rossow
You stand gripping your
letter of marque yellowed
waving Congress stamped
close to me too near me. Your
mahogany eyes telling me you have the
right to take from me what is mine
what was mine.
Only papers are
needed legitimate piracy you
utter legs planted arms crossed
gaze firm unwavering
close to me too near me. The
plank shudders. Diverted eyes I
raise.
How am I to get back what
you stole from me? The beating
pulsing piece of me that pumps
crimson through my channels and
life through my waterways? A split
second your tawny eyes flicker. Concern or
pity? I cannot tell.
Your stance remains
unreadable. Emboldened I ask once
more. The plank bounces. How am I to
get back what you stole from me? You stand
close to me too near me. You
stare silently into my
sunglow eyes.
~Pamela
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
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 Rossow
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.
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
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
Pamanner 