*A New Blog*

I've started a new blog at wordpress. I'll still be posting here, but less frequently.
The majority of my work will be going there.
Here's the link if you're interested;

http://wordsandthoughtspjs.wordpress.com/

Pamela

"Leaves Regret" A Whirl of Wordling Sundays #7

It’s your favourite rollercoaster ride into the wind;
spinning, it leaves you unafraid …
a barge that drifts on an inky lake, 
you try not to undulate in its presence

It’s stillness of common fear,
confining murmurs of your heart
contained within a purple basin,
broken inside an abyss

Gravestones have been erected
in country to city outlines,
worms burrow in ivy hillsides,
capturing moisture from the night …
lingering in the gaudy glow which
now defines your life

"Relating to Another" Writer's Island #23 prompt: Contingent

It is the soffit of beginnings
When loving something completely
a piece of it stays with you,
a small exfoliated portion,
its imprint left behind

A filum that runs behind you causing
mixed curiosities, sadness
Every night you lose your feelings,
only for them to return at sunrise

Trying to mask outer mishaps
whenever it is convenient …
so compartmentalized,
like your suitcase on a terrazzo floor
by a wilted fern with a fly buzzing round,
keeping time in spaceless anxiety

Surrounding parity keeps
severe situations from entering
Breathing hangs heavy in stifling air
Portions are erased but never lost

"The Moon Through Branches" Collab #4 Breakers At Midnight

  He cries to a pale cerulean moon; brightness is
keeping an eye forever frightful
On the trees we’re aware that
branches sway to something likely
A subtle rhythm may exist out there

Process notes: This is a cleave poem, it can be read three ways. I wrote this in response to Elizabeth Crawford and Jinksy's "Tuesday Collaborative Image" prompt.
Take a look over at  http://claudetteellinger.wordpress.com/
You might want to join in on the fun!

"The Park Bench" Poets United Thursday Think Tank #51-time-out

 It’s your mediocrity that filled rooms
and completed every yellowed page
The sound of your voice was
as coarse as your thoughts
Looking behind old closed doors …
they held answers
Windows opened when closed tightly,
paint accumulated in crevices,
years of wear, and weather beaten

Fountains contained no more water
Funnels were clogged from lack of use
Lyme built up visible from your caustic eyes
You had verified all minor complexities
held deep beneath the surface, like twisting
wire frames that no longer fit the picture

You never could’ve counted errors
of missed satisfaction,
or a dream of less perfect times
when you walked in those empty spaces
I can’t remember anything about you;
neither can the bench where you always sat