Inclement Weather

We are
a flock of
unidentified birds;
wing-flapped,
stagnant in a migration
too inherited to decipher.

Our bartender
rattles her penny
for the double shot
poured into
the night’s blurred
pecking order.

It’s anyone’s game
with the rain against
soft feathers while
we wait to catch
the snow.




Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2012
all rights reserved




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Winter Wine

I touched
your light
for an instant

felt you move,
curl about
my curves,
soar within
my space.

We pressed
red leaves
against dreams
of spring

but ribbons
would not be
undone.

Our glimmer
faded into
wet boulevards,
what ifs, and
winter wine.




Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2012
all rights reserved


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You Melt the Rain

Your colors consume me,
glow my cheeks and
drink my senses
like cinnamon sticks
spicing empty hours
as stars glimmer
tiny lights through velvet.

You cannot see
your shine spread
wild flowers against
Alaskan ridges

or how they
sink turtle shells
in blue Caribbean water.

Our love-making bows
tomorrow's prism
opening hidden passages
when caressed limbs 
reveal your hues

and you melt your rain
into my pores.










Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2012
all rights reserved

Holy Assassination

I cannot accept the breath
of aristocratic smog,
fast lights,
and slow patent leather
tied to thin wire ties
and earpieces
resembling a
woman's stud.

Linger, Sir Thomas,
and taste -
her hymen was splintered
long ago.

We have forgotten thatched roofs
lining Canterbury's cobbles;
Beckett's conflict effacing
Tudor clones.

They are yesterday's
sadistic desires,
breached by sweet honey history
in the wilderness of god
on warm days
where settled pollen
rains its sticky past
over quaking aspen.







Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2012
all rights reserved
























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nightingale

coffee on a
leafy boulevard
reminds me how
I love to watch

people move
discordantly
from voice

float within a
pensive adagio

ivory vibrates
their somber song
ever searching
for a truer tone

and I am caught
within each strain







Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2012
all rights reserved

ogeechee dust

we practiced paper-napkin origami
wrote poetry on the inside of our hands

light promised purpose
and spring found its glitter
in the subtle momentum
of energy's metronome

when wind shifted
and honey bees gleaned soft pollen
from the tupelo
we understood the tart taste
of borrowed time

~

it rained at your funeral
and I cried some
reading scribbles on my palm
turning words on ogeechee dust 




Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2012
all rights reserved

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origami pigeons

you pulled an origami pigeon from behind your back

          eyes alive with the night sky
          anticipation, your energy electric

and I had to laugh at the exhilaration breathing within me 

paper wings fluttered white
as light fell and swirled within
the meteor shower of your heart

and I knew you were the one

who could find magic
on the edge of a dime
if you looked at it
from just the right angle



Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2012
all rights reserved

Feather On the Wind

I can tell you about a sunset
that fell fast
behind an Indian Ocean

or the way warm orange
drifted near the edge
of the Adriatic.

I can tell you about
an Atlantic moment
when the sky turned silver red
and soft pastels hung near cloud's edge

where the seals sing in spring.

I can relate the moment
a heated orb dipped lazily into
the Gulf of Mexico

when love held my hand and
told me we could have 

forever,

but I'd rather tell of the sunrise
on a cold October morning.

It rose with brilliant crimson
over beach grass from last summer
and held to the edge of fragile sand
like the air that held our breath.

It lingered,
then dissipated like a feather on the wind.

Like you,
it was harder to catch
than the sunset --



Copyright © Pamela A. Lamppa
(All Rights Reserved)

The Piper - Poetic Prose

There is an ethereal space where man defies gravity and bends as supple as a deity.  It is here that he rises before the stars and radiates inner spirit from his heart; allows eyes to surface, views the softer venues of a woman's bosom, and finds her allure a powerful voice beckoning him to follow.

She is the piper, sensual with song to all who quiver in her wake, and she knows herself in all that is pure; all that is beautiful. She rises above his character and soars in the company of clouds and angels in her own light. 

He found her mid lilies, bathing with the wise Koi where sun's setting red rays rode upon their metallic scales and cast them as swimming gold.  They swished their fanned fins around her thighs, tickled her breasts with feathered tails, and nuzzled her silken hair with aromatic, heady breath in rippled water.  She moved as one of them; smooth without splash -- and she spied him watching her.  She teased with naked breast and bare leg; smiled with soft whispers at water's edge before fixing her eyes upon his stare.  There would be no mistaking her intent as he offered his hand and she accepted.

They drank their passion beneath the rustling bamboo, coupling as poured lemon and cane sugar in their twining.  Toes touched cool water, eyes held each other's gaze, skin blushed like pink petals on white pond lilies, and they soared with the stars behind the white light of moon glow. 

He slept while she basked.  Obsession spent, she rolled into the pond, swishing feathered tail and transformed limbs in a silver shimmer of love and angel light. 

He awoke alone beneath starlight and pondered.  Moments with this missing maiden had been intoxicating, laced with exhilaration beyond mere touch.  She had presented before him in a vision of radiance that had defied gravity and rose above his mortality; he understood her as "Goddess."





Copyright © Pamela A. Lamppa
(All Rights Reserved)








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Life Line

 


I viewed your palm,
studied its life line –

traced my index finger.

You grabbed hold
and we never let go.




Copyright © Pamela A. Lamppa
(All Rights Reserved)

Room For More - Poetic Prose

Like a bag of sour balls, insecurity rounds my tongue, circles like a vulture ready to pick leftovers from bones already too labored to accept additional insult and finds the taste unsettling.

It is my world within a salt shaker, hidden from children and outsiders and I am carried in granules beyond measurable exhaustion.  I am expected to endure, toss self into incomprehensible insanity while my rational mind struggles to accept the impossible, tries to outshine my wobbled balance with logic, fights with held tears and gritted teeth as my gut aches and my head screams:

"Not one more thing!"

But, there is always one more thing and it doesn't matter if I cry or not.

I am haunted by the dim memory of what it is to live without pain and find rhythm in circular motion.  I wonder what promises really mean as I am quickly reminded how easily life breaks in the realm of naiveté when one lingers in the bliss of it.  I know the feel of the scar and it doesn't take long to remember the burn. 

It is, I suppose, how we learn.

Still, optimism and faith find a way to open my heart and I am better able to understand that none of us are so different from each other.  We are all, each of us, products of the paths we have walked; each with his own burden to carry, each with his own set of links to learning and we are better for having walked here. 

When I look behind, my past is circular.  It rolls around like a rubber ball, bouncing from one island to another, skipping stones and dancing with each new idea; each new building block of learning.  Yet, as appealing as youth may seem, I know I would never go back to how it was.

So when my mind screams and my hands are thrown to the air insisting I cannot take one more thing, I am reminded of how many things have led me to where I stand today, how as each hurdle has been conquered, it has been cast away and leaves me fresh ground to walk, fresh ground for one more thing.

There is always room for more.



Copyright © Pamela A. Lamppa
(All Rights Reserved)

Blackberry Winter

Eyes search,
linger on horizon,

wait for gilded lines
to crest,
to savor
vast flavor 
as light bends.

Boundless
opportunity
and immeasurable
wealth

wash winter white,
warm spring ferns,
breathe new red berries
with soft bird-song at daybreak.

It is an
inexhaustible
continuum
arched for
fresh green
sprouts, spun
mid tender
seedling-song

richly absorbed
for knowledge
kept within each
endless curve -

each life curve ...

Humble tears well
overwhelmed
within a vernal sunrise.







Copyright © Pamela A. Lamppa
All Rights Reserved

Weaver's Knot

Heart listens when a writer pens,
forms bond with quill and ink
to soar o'er skies or bound 'cross glens;
one never has to think.
Free verse or rhyme, which one is best?
Don't put a writer to this test.
          Free verse or rhyme
          free verse or rhyme?
"Adventure" is what's been expressed.


Heart listens when a writer pens
regardless of the form.
The style of it always portends
to comfort, or reform.
For you, I'll write with style sublime,
my gift in free verse or in rhyme,
          for you I'll write
          for you I'll write;
etch soul upon a page of time.


Heart listens when a writer pens;
so links this weaver's knot
to vision through creative lens --
the genre matters not!
My expertise will tell the tale
as insight breathes its tight-tuned scale.
          My expertise,
          my expertise
is free verse rhymed with formed detail.





Copyright © Pamela A. Lamppa
All Rights Reserved

Berug-katunifer - Nonsense Verse

When once I was orfamelling
across the skooming moors,
my mellop was mellopedly
becoming more obscure.

Berugs were silbek with their claims,
a krilbed, drintedly,
fell victim to their lequimires
with nothing left to save.

But todgrikken was not my way;
zivota held me firm,
that I would never fail against
Berug-katunifer.

copyright © Pamela A. Lamppa

All Rights Reserved 

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Jeweled Perfection

As Aphrodite,

          woman

is crowned
with luminescent filters
of dantier silks.

Her prowess of men
anoint her

          goddess.

Blended fresh as ripened fruit,
morsels of gossamer
yield siphoned vision-scope,
allure; captivate.

Beyond jeweled perfection,
her skilled pull to push
and plunge with astragal pastels,
refines sensitive yearning;

holding firm

to press
where angels tread
and dared
to spread her wings.


Copyright © Pamela A. Lamppa
All Rights Reserved

Cherry Blossoms - Poetic Prose

Warmth found its way into my damp crevices of melancholy as I remembered your eyes. How generous their view of love, even when dim shadows formed gray beneath them, and your thinned shoulders fell limp.

Still, as you labored breath, you called my heart to hear yours, and as each became one - my inhale to your exhale - your final sigh found its soft place in early May.

Branches filled with spring song and tears watered buds to move with the spread of new life. I lingered beneath cherry blossoms, engulfed within their carpeted embrace and felt your tender petals find flight in the early warm air. It was fitting that rebirth mark your expiration. 



 Copyright © Pamela A. Lamppa
All Rights Reserved




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I Held My Tears - Poetic Prose

On rising, sun glimmers inside a new spring morning.  Bird song filters through sheer curtains casting calico patterns on the wall while a delicate rattling of wooden wind chimes hold clicks within soft whispers.

Excitement gushes through veins like rushing river water; my momentary hope that the music of your voice has me returning from a long and lonesome dream.

A dream that finds you in every summer cloud that whisks across a blue sky, and feels your warmth upon my sun-touched cheeks at the close of each day.  And when  rain washes pine pollen along concrete gutters like lemon sugar on iced cupcakes, I melt within your memory knowing I belong there; just beside your smile.

Dreams carry an incredible ache, bend my soul into pieces where inner sorrow festers so ripe, it will bleed its bitter like black tar squelching energy to the bare bones of raw pain.

It was the dream that understood why we never said goodbye.

And I struggle with sanity to come full circle, planting new beginnings from roots of survival mode; the benchmark of my cure.

I live as you would have intended - as anyone would expect - finding new love and savoring tenderness in another smile that spills its quiet time to share my moments and understand my grief.

As the rush of excitement recedes, cools to the reality of awake, I remember - remember the feel of your skin on mine, and know it can never again meld with my own - and I hold my tears.  I do not wish to share this gift.


Copyright © Pamela A. Lamppa
All Rights Reserved

Dragonfly

Act I.

Ahh my beloved,
how obscure your touch;

a faltering baluster
pressing lies
revealed with soft,
supple eyes steeled
to mock me and disguise
the verity behind your play.



Act II.

You might plead me
to carry your wind,
release beneath willows;
let soar as the falcon soars

that I should
say goodbye?



Act III.

Cry.



Act IV.

I am
your dragonfly;

united on such 
unpopular flight, 
unhindered by 
truth 

in honesty for love.



Copyright © Pamela A. Lamppa
All Rights Reserved

Private Voice

Yours are the shadows that find my essence;
black wilderness breathing raw energy
through the rustling of my taffeta

where desire awaits,
where tears are kept.

Yours are the eyes alive within the night
taken to caress my cheek in darkness
where your trace across my breast

brings our love making;
begins our night's unmasking.

Your straightened lips hold tight
and do not speak of love

yet

they quiver with wet warmth
at the thought of losing it -
and I am the voice to kiss you;

to breathe care
though each membrane
as if it were my own.

Together, our shadows weep,
keeping private voice
through lover's gestures
kindled with hope's tender moments.




 Copyright © Pamela A. Lamppa
All Rights Reserved





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