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 burn, singeing.
Catalysts, flashpoint then combustion.
When the heat simmers down, a white smoky
haze–aftermath still smoldering. He was
changed.

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

October By Robert Frost

pepper tree

In October, even in South Florida, there is a hint of fall. The sunlight glints through the trees more golden, breezes kick up, and there’s the promise of a reprieve from the humidity–even if we have to wait until November or December for it. Here’s to celebrating autumn whether you are gazing upon miles of open country with trees the color of crimson or you are strolling about a city center enjoying the crisp weather. Cheers!

October

O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away.
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
For the grapes’ sake along the wall.
By  Robert Frost

In My Sky At Twilight ~Pablo Neruda

sunset

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

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 Rossow