Popular Posts

  • Cinderella Song
    She slipped to trip  her slipper fell-- it found its light a wishing well  of painted days  that dreamed of nig...
  • Private Voice
    Yours are the shadows that find my essence; black wilderness breathing raw energy through the rustling of my taffeta where desire awa...
  • 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 upo...
  • 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 t...
  • 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 ...
  • Rendezvous
    Storm rages for a distant summer night like sweet molasses from hard sugar cane compressing heartbeats, ever so polite, until soft moonligh...
  • powdered time
    silver spills  fills temples lines windowsills  while perception  drifts through  undulant panes remembers roses  in your ha...
  • Of Mother
    Oriental Bittersweet stretches,  limbs caress three begotten held tightly still  to heart as vines relax;  press against  ...
  • Room For More - Poetic Prose
    Like a bag of sour balls, insecurity rounds my tongue, circles like a vulture ready to pick leftovers from bones already too labored to acc...
  • 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 simp...

Tuesday, February 23, 2016

Winter Morning





Daybreak pretends
a tepid critique 
enclosed by 
brisk flake
and frost-laden sod
as winter sun glows
flesh between 
ocean mist
and steel blue.




She asked: "What is the color of apricot?"  I believe I showed her.   
Pamela A. Lamppa 
Copyright © 2016
All Rights Reserved

Posted by at No comments:

Impression





I fold,
rush to undulate
beneath your swell,
billow 
at the crest 
of heated curl,
and break 
within your
white-capped 
surge.



dare I make a ripple ...
Pamela A. Lamppa 
Copyright © 2016
All Rights Reserved

Posted by at No comments:

Intimations





She turns a whisper
and the air cools 

 gently. 

 Spring haze drifts
between the glint
of iris reflections 
bending 
within ripples.

 I know this place 
of yesterday's glimmer
and bleed memory 
for its taste. 



Pamela A. Lamppa 
Copyright © 2016
All Rights Reserved

Posted by at No comments:
Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)