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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