unintended disclosure

i.

cornered walls

echo breath,

sighs heave,

regurgitate

discovery

in dusty paper

and old paint.

ii.

sleep is apprehensive;

a cognizant deterrent

for kept secrets.

iii.

stale scent

misses lip's

covert distortion;

presses truth

against veins.

I question

love's edification.

Pamela A. Lamppa 

Copyright © 2016 

All Rights Reserved

Of Earth and Mortar

Today, the air is fragrant and alive
each breath a gift as sun reveals her light.
It seems so fitting that I might derive
a vision of myself in living flight.

Though I can never boast of feathered wings
nor see the earth from high up in the sky
I can, instead, believe as queens and kings -
I am of her and so identify.

I labor for the deeds of living soul,
my working hands to build the man I am.
From earth and mortar leveled with control
my value far outweighs a tinker's dam.

A price cannot be placed to show my worth
for every day I breathe upon this earth.




Pamela A. Lamppa 
Copyright © 2016 
All Rights Reserved

Threadwork

You are...

fine lines 
that form arches 
beneath lobes;

twined pairs 
that string scented 
euphemisms each time
laugh lines fade.

I am yours;

fingers meshed
within sunrise -
woodland pine
nibbling noses









Pamela A. Lamppa 
Copyright © 2016 
All Rights Reserved

Peeled

I spiral,

thin-ribbon caress
upon guarded memory
while lids burn,
bleed retorts
disguised in 
denim jeans and

bygone tears.




Pamela A. Lamppa 
Copyright © 2016 
All Rights Reserved

Rally

December fingers fumble with April snowfall as radical speech hits the soap box bending beneath Trump's rhetoric and a carnival of Republican brass. To the left, a blend of first time voters and long standing Democrats balance a bucket of Sanders against the status quo. Even my daffodils are mouth agog with the fresh frost that leaves them mourning spring's warmth. 


Pamela A. Lamppa 
Copyright © 2016 
All Rights Reserved

Ebb Tide

I am curled,

breech amulet 

that dispells faith,

derelict branch 

left dormant amid 

mollusk-laid sand;

a scab 

blistered by 

the host of

day-whimper.

Yet night blues 

cool

residual reds, 

burn stiff flesh

into dreams that 

scatter upon

smooth silk 

linen.

How gently I dip

beyond surrender

willing to rise

again when

called.

Pamela A. Lamppa 

Copyright © 2016 

All Rights Reserved