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

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

The Swing

 

 

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

 

Orion in Your Eyes

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

 

Weeds

 

 

 

 

 

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

Dear Daughter

Years ago, you made your entrance as my tiny princess sitting Indian style.  I prayed I would have a baby girl to love.  I was granted my wish.  It nearly killed me I could not hold you immediately upon seeing your little face but your dad held you near to me so I could gaze upon you (making sure you were swaddled and safe).  As soon as the doctors allowed me to cradle you, into my arms you went.  I can’t believe how fast the years have passed since that first meeting.  I loved you before you were born and knew that I was given a gift straight from heaven.  While it is difficult not being with you to celebrate your birthday (today), please know I am thinking about and loving you right where you are. When we are together, I am astounded that I must glance upwards to look into your eyes.  I see a tall, hard-working, intelligent, young woman who has dreams and goes after them.  You will achieve your goals because you are tenacious (even when life is rough).  You are beautiful inside and out and I am proud to call you my daughter.  No one could ever replace you!  I love you up to heaven and back.  Happy birthday, honey!

Love,

Mom

To Mom with Love

“We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty.”
~Maya Angelou

 

Mom,

You have shown me by your words, love, and life that we only become butterflies when we have spent time patiently waiting to emerge from the chrysallis.  Then our wings must straighten and dry.  They are delicate and can tear easily, yet, strong enough for flight.  I love you more than words.

Love,

Pamela

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                            

    

                      

                                                         

                                                                

                                                   

                                                                                                                                                                                      

                                                                                                                       

                                                                

            

                                                         

                               

NPD

 

 

 

 

 

Then-
(you, “The Universe,” thought) 

That-
my intellect-
cerebrated
you

my lips-
explored
you

my heart-
thrummed
you 

my arms-
catered
you

my hands-
stroked
you

my legs-
received
you

my breath-
inhaled
you

Now-
(you, “The Universe,” know better)

And-
(she will know too)

~Pamela Rossow

Portfolio

she was liquid convertible
bought then sold “securities”
a word not recognized in
her metaphysical vocabulary

terms tossed about like
paper airplanes aimed here
there nose diving into sharp
dips and crumpled equities

result of losses maybe wobbles
in her investor’s confidence or
possibly sheer panic either way
equilibrium shoved off kilter

she was left to question her
worth she realized she was an
asset her price immeasurable
by Wall Street’s standards

he was hit hard when he traded
stock privatized that plummeted
her market value though
rose to astronomical heights

~Pamela 

Symphony of Saws

I’m sitting here working and loud sounds may be heard outside (despite the Cat. 5 rated hurricane, impact resistant, glass windows in my bedroom). By loud, I mean very loud since if the sounds were softer, I wouldn’t hear them at all.  To many people, these sounds would be considered “noises.”  If my ears don’t deceive me, a heavy duty concrete saw is being utilized as well as a tile saw.  These sounds should irritate me but they don’t.  Years of growing up with a dad, who worked around the clock as a full-time firefighter and part-time carpenter, have provided me with enough “audio memories” that, instead of aggravation, I experience contentment when hearing the sounds.  Must have something to do with the association of loud sounds with progress (my dad was, and is, the type man to finish projects). So, I’ll keep writing to the symphony of concrete, tile, and hydraulic saws and know that my neighbor will soon be enjoying a beautiful pool patio.

 

Pianoforte

she was a pianoforte a
temperament of stringed
tension piano wires and
sympathetic vibrations
originally adjusted to a
fixed pitch she now needed
her intervals aligned her
frequencies modified she
made up for her inharmonicities
with versatility and ubiquity this
way she could maintain a
level plane while
situated on a slope 

©   Pamela A. Rossow

The Memory

he held it in his hands a box a
present like nothing he ever
saw before the packaging was
different translucent radiant
he wasn’t sure how to handle it
what was the best way to open
it what to do with it he set it
down and  pondered  it no
letter no tag no idea who it
was from for a split second
a  frown flitted across his face
couldn’t be too long ago he
grabbed the satin bow and yanked
it entwined about his fingers
a seam in the mysterious glowing
paper he tore into it impatient
hands parted crumpled tissue
a gasp sheer surprise when he saw
what lay amidst the disarray he
lowered his head in his hands and
he cried

Pamela A. Rossow

Butterweed

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

Letter of Marque

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 

Hunger Moon

 

 

 

 

a slender hand grazes the

pale moon trembling in

liquid ripples a single

twirling touch caresses a

glinting reflection

dusky waves illumined by

nature’s night light

love’s luminescence

stroked by an adorer

gestures of perpetual

affection

Pamela A. Rossow

Evolution

I sat up all night waiting for
you-
somewhere between one
billion to ten billion years.

 
You-
a red supergiant with your
tightly bound, iron nuclei,
dense stellar winds,
contracting core.

 
I sat up all night waiting for
you-
somewhere between one
billion to ten billion years.

 
You-
and your increased surface
temperature smoldering
within me, your fused elements
consuming my energy.

 
I sat up all night waiting for
you-
somewhere between one
billion to ten billion years.

 
You-
and your shockwave, instead, you
collapsed from within exploding into a
supernova flashing bright then
fading into blackness.

 
I sat up all night waiting for
you-
somewhere between one
billion to ten billion years.

 
You-
and your magnetic field a
dynamo, yet, your stellar flares
dimmed, your rotation slowed, your
luminosity fluxed, and I slept.

© Pamela A. Rossow