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