Tag Archives: postaweek

Cerulean

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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

In the Arms of Morpheus

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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

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

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.

The Haunting

October breathes reflection for me. There’s a supernatural quality to this particular month that evokes sentimental remembrances. Whether it’s because of the changes reflected in nature that strip life down to its bare, autumnal branches, I’m not sure. What I am certain of is the fluctuating nature of life.

Have you ever been haunted?  Truly chilled by specters in the form of uncanny experiences that won’t let you forget past loves or childhood’s embrace? To stand in a particular space and sense a gauzy veil has lifted and you can feel, see and almost touch your past, your joys, your sorrows?

These spirits persist in fingering our souls with their icy bittersweet hands. They haunt us, disguised as filmy apparitions of people who caressed our lives so that, while time unmercifully shoves us forward, our memories, our subconscious, resuscitates them, breathes life into them, and clothes them with skin, flesh, and bones.

So when people cross our paths who remind us of these persons in our pasts, we feel the coolness of shadows. In the shadows, a darkness which briefly flits across our hearts and is the complete opposite of warmth and sunlit freedom and meadows.

These phantoms reach and clutch and we rarely escape unscathed. Our minds, in an effort to deal with the mausoleum of preserved memories, try to wrap themselves around the mysterious and cannot make sense of it. It’s too evasive–too mettlesome to grapple.

We press forward and eventually break away from their grasps. Time, once more, fills our lives with flurries of work, bills, and children. We forget–until the next haunting.