supercluster

i.


you are binary

deliberate within
thought and
needed
want

however vast


ii.

it is that
cosmic string
of duality
that desecrates
the debris
left in your wake


iii.

I am a dust particle
dense, distant

much like
a daredevil
running your blood
against my rusted veins

Third Eye Blind

I give growth
to my own Ushnisha,
oh enlightened me!
So beautifully blessed
to mount upon my
elite instrument of grace.

Such vision is simple.

Yet, with each hand that
clings tightly to life's
knowledge, truth
escapes me

and I am commander
of my own sinking ship
professing to be so savvy
that loneliness,

my only friend,

screams how rich I am
to an abandoned crew.

I was their captain long ago.

If only for
the fuller
moments ...

less tears to profess
the square hole
surpassing the round peg --

if just one touch
for this sophisticated skin ...

I might find myself to be a
celebration of atmospheric changes
causing rain and earthquakes.

How dare I even mention such,
squeezing the glass so tight
that its shatter cuts my skin
and opens all those places I
refuse to look! 




Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2013
all rights reserved

Forgiveness

Your coffee cup
dangles on the toe
of my high heel.

Red patent leather
focuses balance,
adjusts where panic
bleeds through
healing;

seals hushed lips
that might forsake love.






Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2013
all rights reserved

Inclement Weather (Avant Garde)

We are
a stream of
absent marshmallows;
wing-flapped,
vibrant in our eclectic state
too inherited to remember.

Our cradle
rubs her schillings
for the double whammy
siphoned into
life’s unwavering
pissing order.

It’s anyone’s pretense
where the hail against
rubber ducks will land
as we continue to bleed
the earth.







Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2013
all rights reserved

Fingers Doubled Into Palm

i.

I whisper your name
content to mend
bruises; feel shame
with a new sun
bright upon
fresh snowfall.


ii.

My tear captures
the metallic taste
of my blood before
it lets go and
falls into the mix
of ocean sorrow.


iii.

How different
the noon sky seems
blending with clouds
and coming rain
as night moves
behind blind shadows.


iv.

I walk between
greens and violets;
a visible spectrum
before turning oaks
as rust burns my soles
and memories.


v.

Love evaporates with
misted breath in the
hot vow of disdain
as despair wrestles
the willow’s weep
amid life jackets and
a fisherman’s net.







Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2013
all rights reserved

Waiting for the Moon

An Empty Crate

We find peace in an empty crate;
its broken top askew. 
The welcome breeze defines our fate -
the crux of me and you.
 We line its soul with pleasant things
and hold each other free from strings.
    We line its soul.
    We line its soul
and write our hearts in coffee rings.


We find peace in an empty crate;
its wooden slats are few.
Our edgy songs border innate
through colors we imbue.
 We paint our love as morning sings
thankful for what our caring brings.
    We paint our love!
    We paint our love
gliding as if on children's swings.


We find peace in an empty crate;
its windows let light through.
The trust we hone helps us create
with knowledge we accrue.
 As seasons share their offerings
art flies to us upon their wings.
    As seasons share,
    as seasons share
life's gifts embrace love's reckonings.







Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2013
all rights reserved

A Trijan Refrain

.

Heaven's Song

Beyond this planet shines a silver orb
all smoothed and polished by an angel's wing
and all those dreams of love that I absorb
are gentle thoughts within the song I sing.

Your sturdy body nestles safe and warm
with hearty wings to lift me past the sky,
and I hold tight against your rushing form
as streams of stars blink at my passage by.

And if this dream that holds me by your side
is nothing more than just my dying soul
I'll beg again to shine from deep inside
with grateful notes to keep you strong and whole.

How pure this tune is as your vessel nears
to sing a song that only heaven hears.




Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2013
all rights reserved






A pretty little sonnet

Stars and Stripes

While spring turns into lazy summer days
the words of independence drip on lips
and hands of pride move rightly on to hips
reminding us with banners and displays.
And as our anthem in the background plays,
a child with eyes wide open hears its tune
and heritage breathes in what it conveys
like lemonade in early afternoon.

The celebration soon to hit each town
reminds us with nostalgia of things passed,
of soldiers brave who led to liberty
with tearful eyes recalled above hard frowns.
The softer joys of fishing lines are cast
with easy sway as freedom will decree
foundation's words that one cannot eclipse 
as pride remembers why we raise our flag.

Such liberties are not set there to brag
or boast of "more" to foreign sailing ships
but for the reason freedom's harness grips
and voice is let to sing without a gag.
Its worth cannot be deemed on a price tag  
or bartered for a stack of gambling chips.
This sparkling celebration we express
reveals ideals of where our base is laid. 

Those stars and stripes that signify our land
are treasured as a mother's soft caress 
as people march in unified parade;
one nation, indivisible in hand.







by Pamela A Lamppa
© All rights reserved.



Happy Birthday America - Recall and Remember Why.

powdered time

silver spills 

fills temples
lines windowsills 
while perception 
drifts through 
undulant panes

remembers roses 
in your hair

your beauty 
has quieted here
in this place 
where promises we 
made still reach out
for our embrace





Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2013
all rights reserved















dust

Fighting Childhood Cancer One Glass at a Time

“Join me and Premier Research in our efforts to help the fight against childhood cancer by visiting  Alex's Lemonade Stand and making a donation!”

Cinderella Song

She slipped to trip 

her slipper fell--

it found its light

a wishing well 

of painted days 

that dreamed of night;

          Cinderella's midnight flight.

Time sped so fast 

her eyes lost sheen

her focus dazed 

became unclean

in dreams forgotten

one by one

as childhood lines 

became undone.

Each finger filtered

          two by four

and every day 

          they added more

to find her path

and pin her to

the place where 

Mother

tied her shoe.

Was she the one

who missed the loop

who led her from

that friendly group

to stand in sand 

behind the shed

where toes 

lost shoes

and socks 

instead;

instead of marching 

up the hill

far from the ones 

who said:

"be still"

her laces tied

her shoes on tight 

where morning sang

and sun was bright?

Pamela A. Lamppa

Copyright © 2013

all rights reserved

A Sweet Venture

How rich the scented citrus blooms in May
to bring a tasty treat to us each morn.
A spread I'd wager, for the ones well-born
who sip aged tea and breathe its warm bouquet.

While common women fuss about their day
and serve like maddened wasps who show their scorn,
how rich the scented citrus blooms in May
to bring a tasty treat to us each morn.

And yet perhaps it goes with Cabernet
and bitter swiss expanding braces worn.
So sweet the rind that never would forewarn
of trouser size increasing every day. 
How rich the scented citrus blooms in May.








Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2013
all rights reserved








Rondel

A French form consisting of 13 lines: two quatrains and a quintet, rhyming as follows: ABba abAB abbaA. The capital letters are the refrains, or repeats.

Source reference: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/rondel.html

For an Instant

i.

tide rolls
smooth pebbles
into disappearing
trails on beach sand



ii.

for an instant,
I touch a firefly,
burn its green glow 
into my lining
and remember 
passion



iii.

little 
    love 
         notes
         and 
    rose 
petals



iv.

how fully 
I recall your voice 
murmuring whispered 
"I love you’s"
amid the echo of gull cry












Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2013
all rights reserved

Playbill

i.

script writers spit
sour words late into
the night, pressing
amplified aromas into 
street gutters

she sips rejection
in silence and chokes 
down her dying dreams



ii.

sharp-edged tickets swirl,
slide beneath red carpets 
rolled like stylized pages
on an art board

she scrambles for 
silver trinkets



iii.

hope cannot live 
long enough for 
the gentle winds
of prosperity 

time becomes bound 
by yesterday's vision to 
feed an empty stomach



iv.


bright lights
find thin hands
scraping alley trash
where eyes wear red 
better than the 
lead character

she fingers a 
yellowed playbill 
and smiles at the sky 



















Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2013
all rights reserved

The Leper of the Day

I am misaligned with the moon,
counting mandarin orange sandwiches
in the dark while skin opens its
pores to the rain of revolution.

Limbs feel oppression's box
in dim light, trailing sobs;
voices call only to fall
on deaf ears.

Tall oaks shadow my waxed profile
spit into prefabricated form;
turn away from abhorrent stares.

         I bleed for freedom
         in the land of the free.

Not one of my bones are counted
for a pending noose probing civil rights
hidden behind society's mask of
corruption and monetary security.

Where is the dollar that dares buy my
human form when the common enemy
castrates the leper of the day?



Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2013
all rights reserved

Venice

i.

Fountains spill crisp
coconut's fresh-split
white against strawberries
waterway bound upon
cobble-clatter,
chattering history about
eager ears, pressing
romance into winsome eyes.


ii.

Gondolas transport
essence to sixth century
canals where Casanova
dances freely about lace
and slow-sipped wine;
illusion warms flushed skin
to revel with delight.


iii.

Definitions spray
eclectic epistles before
lapis and gold mosaics
lined cathedral walls;
aerosol ghosts dusting
baroque buildings --
a traveler's bittersweet.


iv.

I am captured;
breathless amid ancient
beauty and modern scribble
as consistent sun presses
her gold twilight into
St. Mark's Square.










Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2013
all rights reserved

Your Last Goodnight

I saw your eyes
in evening snowfall,
blue as daylight's
midday sky ...

They say:
"Expect about ten inches"
and of course I wonder
why?

Why you carried self
so silent
over years of
press and burn

when you saw
the love you'd missed
in every twist
and turn?

Never once
would you look forward
to a life that
might have been

only now
within the secret
could one see
what you had seen.

Eyes of yours -
the evening snowfall;
like the full moon
at midnight.

You never saw
that blizzard coming
when you said
your last goodnight.







Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2013
all rights reserved

Abject Despair

Small eyelids
cradle tears;
bent stomachs
fill with broad
lunges for
the idea of hope.

Whispered condolences
press perseverance
into our children
yet understand
the frozen tundra
of a warring world.




Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2013
all rights reserved









 "It snowed and snowed, the whole world over,
Snow swept the world from end to end.
A candle burned on the table;
A candle burned."      -  Boris Pasternak, Dr. Zhivago  

Rendezvous

Storm rages for a distant summer night
like sweet molasses from hard sugar cane
compressing heartbeats, ever so polite,
until soft moonlight hastens them again.
Such hurricane brews hard within my stead
pushing the hours of light that lie ahead,
and press this heady rush that might impair
those stately daylight moments that we share.

Pray midnight casts cool shadows for our love;
protects it from the coo of mourning dove
where we shall blaze those flames held close at bay
throughout our wanting in the light of day.

I touch your skin pressed gently into mine
and savor moments as our limbs entwine.

But like a jester or a circus clown
whose antics often lead one to believe
that right is wrong whenever up is down
I now must don a coat of soft reprieve.
Too soon it comes, and nightfall bears its end
forging a hope most would not comprehend.
And in a reckless moment we admit
baring the passion daytime won't permit.

Sweet magnolia on the southern air,
the morning's gold reveals our cloaked affair
oblivious while parting lips recall
the moonlit kiss we drank in spite of all.

My heart prefers the night that bleeds my mind
and ever pines the love we leave behind.




Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2013
all rights reserved

I Smiled

I found your rhythm
in today's sunrise;
a curve in my memory
beneath starlit skies
and white sand beaches.

I smiled with you then

... and again today.

Your whisper; soft silk
upon ocean air
and I embrace
the care

that you found it fair
to love me all your life.












Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2013
all rights reserved

Full Moon Eclipse

I'm a wobbly gadget
on a bone china plate
dizzy from wine
that just won't relate

to the fog of my flashbacks,
the green of my thumb,
where heart becomes heavy
and reason

is numb.

Oh help me, please help me,
alone in my loft,

please help me remember
the gifts that came soft to
vibrations of futures
with hope for much more

and remind me of why

I will try

to be fair
with this fair headed lass
who bleeds color from all,

takes what is given,
pushes to fall
through a spiral
of darkness
where words matter not.

Like a note on a card --
no more meaning
than that.

I'm the tide on
her white-sand,
the spoon with her dish.
I can't go on drinking
a brew such as this
when her hops and her grains
twist blows into shape

at the nape of her needs

to push light away,
to press limit's luck
to the edge of her fray.

It's a matter of time,
that she makes it my fault.
When I start to believe
she forms her assault,

begs me to grieve
for a sun I can't reach;
grasping at words
that rise in my head

         words that we spoke,
         words that we said;

those dreams that were
cherished for what
might become ...

lost to me now;

a morsel,

a crumb.

She forgets who I am
still pleads her desire --
and though I might listen,

I know she's a liar.








Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2013
all rights reserved

smudge

she wept a pale face
except to digress

then confess her wish
that time be
just a bit smaller
and windows cleaner

they dissect her
for the lumps
that appear

inspect her woe
with legumes and
raised eyebrows

she didn't ask for
any of it and her
plate is too full

why do they say dew
cleanses when the fog
that carries it is

dirty




Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2013
all rights reserved

A letter from Salvador Dalí to Pablo Picasso

Dearest Pablo,


"Oh mon ami, à quel point je me rappelle notre beau déjeuner à Paris. Comme je fier suis de vous appeler ami."

My French is still so rough, but oh, it was a grand time, was it not?  Perhaps, when I am in Paris again, we shall dine together at Maxim's.  I will look forward to that with great anticipation.

Much has happened since then, and I must tell you that time has left a ballet within my mind; a breathless vision enchanting every thought and color I can imagine.  My candle burned through each night as I amused myself with the rendez-vous between designer platforms on the left bank at Montmaertre and the colorful riposte of an artist's insult to those who laugh at my pallet of dripping paint.

I find I have no time for the finer amenities and my patience thins with those fools who cannot see as you would see the metaphor of my art.

However, results abound as I am to introduce "The Persistence of Memory", the offspring of such cumbersome thoughts all these months.  I wanted you to be the first to know of it as I have idolized your influence for so long and must thank you for the air you have given that I might breathe within its colors. 

In the next weeks, I travel to America where such rebels adore my "clocks."  They are an odd people, pretending nobility in a handshake while reciting their heritage; as if they are anything other than American.  I will share the unveiling of its title upon my arrival as it seems fitting to their culture.

Until we meet again my friend, wish me fair sail. 

Most respectfully yours,




Salvadore










Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2013
all rights reserved


Author's Notes:

WORD BANK:

Montmartre, Left bank, Ballet, Enchanting, Breathless, Dejeuner, Candle,
Riposte, Maxim's,Designer, Amuse, Rendez-vous

French Translation:

Oh my friend, how well I remember our beautiful luncheon in Paris.  How proud I am to call you friend.

Key references: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Persistence_of_Memory

shedding skin

wing-shimmer
comprehends your sand,
prepares to breathe
in the aftermath of spring rain
as thin limbs caress
our essence on soft breezes

         how timid the delicate dragonfly
         as she unfurls, gently stretching
         the feel of learned newness
         before hovering in comfort

as each granule aligns,
finds its place to
stabilize  unknowns,
touch excites our
cohesive celebration and
embraces our love's awakening








Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2013
all rights reserved

starving

petals separate,
solarium-sunned between
greens transposed
with yellow     papyrus-coerced
charm oblivious to invidious disquiet

          you once thrilled
          in my embrace; soft seed
          pressed close inside your kiss

my poinsettia
wilts in the docile
ochre of earth's buoyancy;
a saline-soaked heart
swollen     urgent     pride-swallowed

imploring the covetous
hand for comfort it
cannot provide

















Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2013
all rights reserved

Recognition

Naked beneath stars,
I observe our moon
and plead frightened hope
into the night
while touch drifts
with veiled chime
as a satin flower
upon the wind.

I inhale heartache's regret
and bend my awakening.

Ripe hands discover
love's innocence
within its impotence.




Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2013
all rights reserved

Snow Blind

Her breath moves without sound
upon my restless death

ridicules the tainted tirade
of dim nights flooded by
depleted star-glimmer
over impatient ivory surf

and pretends light makes
a difference to me.

I am more alive behind
closed lids, chastised -
pressing soul and chalice
to my unheard heart

than if rekindled by her
scavenger's low tide
that mocks my empty womb.





Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2013
all rights reserved