Tag Archives: poetry

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