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