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...
  • Of Mother
    Oriental Bittersweet stretches,  limbs caress three begotten held tightly still  to heart as vines relax;  press against  ...
  • 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...
  • 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...
  • powdered time
    silver spills  fills temples lines windowsills  while perception  drifts through  undulant panes remembers roses  in your ha...
  • 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...

Monday, June 17, 2019

As Her Light Dimmed




She left me; 
hand cupped for more,
ready to accept her departure
with tearful streams
and gentle nudges

 yet,

 my time never
caressed her dying fingers
nor ran my own through
thinning hair
as her light dimmed,

 faded into 
morphine-blurred moments
before she slipped away 
without thought.

 Perhaps it was best.

 I miss her.


© Pamela A. Lamppa
April 2019
All rights reserved
Posted by at No comments:

Accent Lines




I peeled the breath
of fifty nine years
from the sheer layer
of life left stagnant 
above my upper lip.

 It felt a bit raw
as I tossed your 
frayed tooth brush
in the trash -

 hesitated only once
          
before blending cream and
Italian fragrance 
on my neck and breasts.

 I'd be damned if
I let lines accent
anything but brilliance.






 © Pamela A. Lamppa
April 2019
All rights reserved
Posted by at No comments:
Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)