The Book Thief, Poet Thief, Kind of, Sort of, Not Really

Because I could not stop for sleep, come on, world, it’s almost 6 AM
Everyone else is doing it
Give me a fair shake and let me go down the back alley into a dreamscape

But there’s a long line between night and day and day and night
It is written in the stars, in the palms, in the cards
Don’t move. No one will get hurt. Put the gun of anxiety down.

Online, still. 6:30 AM. It’s safe to go through drawers left open,
letting me live in your shoes and dinners and photos
until I am done meandering, fearless, an easy steal

Borrowing cookies you have on display on the table, on the wall, on the shelf,
wondering if your smiles are more show and tell than you intended,
draining the pool and seeing the crumbling, cracked floor for the first time

and I am still awake but smirking, like the burglar.
There is blue light beyond the windows
And hours to go before I sleep.





Sweet Nothings

I’d say I’ve gone fishing but I don’t fish. I don’t even like to eat fish.
My To Do list is as long as a week at the graveyard. Quiet, I suppose. Good thing no one there wants to talk or ask what I am doing with my life. I’m not in the mood to think about anything.

Happiness is two new hairbrushes arriving in the mail to replace a favorite old-timer that finally cracked in five uneasy pieces. Have you ever tried to glue a hairbrush together out of desperation? Don’t.

I ordered two new brushes online.
That felt smart.
An heir and a spare for my hair.

Night Moves

There isn’t a pillow that survives a month under my head.
Punching. Fluffing. Turning over and over. There are hard needles sticking out.
I am a ball of of Covid.

My feet shift all night long. I don’t know where to put them.
Left side? Right? Criss-crossed? Open, wide, straight, dangling over the edge?
I have more awkward positions than a ballet student at the barre.

Sometimes there is music. Sometimes I choose talk. Other sounds comfort me.
I am not deaf.
A room filled with silence is not an option.

I want to know the secrets of sleep.

A Coney Island of My Mind

Photo courtesy of Sabrina Ross, September 15th, 2018

——————————————

This was your last sunset

before your last ride.

We were the ones howling,

beside you, bedside, begging you to come back

while your skin stiffened, like hard, white sand,

and spun into the open arms of the ink blue ocean,

swept away with broken shells and fallen castles,

returning you to where you began.

-Pamela Ross, April 5th, 2021

Follow PAMELA ROSS WRITES on WordPress.com

If I Were King of the Forest

I hope those out there celebrating Easter are bathed in light and love. However you honor your days, my greatest joy will be when we can someday be together again.

We must all surely sense there is hope around the corner. This is a time of reflection and renewal. Let the healing begin. One more shot left for me. I look forward to complaining for a few days after that. Whine for Table Two!

On a lighter note, I need a lot of personal repair work done in the merry old land of Oz before I am fit for public re-entry. I need a protective mask that covers head to toe before I feel ready to join the world again. “If I only had the noive…” Buzz buzz here. Buzz buzz there. And a couple of lah-de-dahs. 😉

A big basket of courage cheerfully accepted. Is there a wizard in the house? Bell out of order. Please knock! Aaah-wooooof!

Cowardly Lion | fictional character | Britannica

How Do You Get to Carnegie Hall?

I’m not complaining. I’m halfway there to Fully Vaccinated for Covid-19. My body is in full-blown, mentally and physically exhausted mode. Not sure why these side effects are hitting me this hard but sharing here just in case this is something you’re feeling or will feel. You are not alone.

Another curious benefit of the shot? I’m on a poetry-buying spree. Time of impulse purchases? Middle of the night. If this is wrong, I don’t want to be right. 😉 (Fuzzy Wrath!) Latest buys: Robert Browning, Jean Valentine, Elizabeth Bishop. One love. One Art.

When I asked Bruce Springsteen what to do with his guitar, he said: “Play it!” Ask Elizabeth Bishop what to do with your poetry? “Write it!”

Photo by Mohammad Danish on Pexels.com

One Art

BY ELIZABETH BISHOP

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Elizabeth Bishop, “One Art” from The Complete Poems 1926-1979. Copyright © 1979, 1983 by Alice Helen Methfessel. Used by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, LLC, http://us.macmillan.com/fsg. All rights reserved.

Hour Gang Comedies

When 2 AM became 3 AM, I asked every computer in the house how its internal clock works. How does it know to zip ahead on this date and that time? This is a personal enigma that could have been avoided had I not dropped out of a introductory computer programming class at NYU after the first impossibly complicated session.

I skipped second and eighth grades. Did you learn this stuff then and forget to share your notes with me?

Little Rascals/Our Gang - Et Cetera | Old tv shows, My childhood memories,  Memories