paper dreams

i have a pocketful of folded paper cranes,
inked with agony, worry, fear of my boneless brain.
numb, loss, i’ll wander, maybe after i watch them burn.

08.31.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo by Dev Benjamin on Unsplash

In response to Sonya of Only 100 Words‘ Three Line Tales Week 83.
If you want to join, here are the simple rules:
  • Write three lines inspired by the photo prompt.
  • Link back to this post.
  • Tag your post with 3LineTales (so we can find you in the Reader).
  • Read and comment on other TLT participants’ lines.
  • Have fun.
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Shoe Shopping

tattered by sand and mud,
kissed by shrapnels and bombs,
we are always ready
to fight, to shot, to combat.

shined until twinkling as stars,
worn to exude power and class,
we are as high as timeless sky,
ready to slay a gal or guy.

made as comfy as a cloud,
displayed as chic, never proud,
we sneak and squeak in right amount,
as we dance, run, twist, and squat.

i am but bare, no thread, no leather,
just muscles and skin,
such fragile matters,
yet i am but your steps’ master
moving forward or back.
soldiers, executives, hippies,
humans, oh, i know their tracks.

whatever cover they clothed me,
expensive, bare, or just an old sack,
as long as they are chasing
their life’s purpose and meaning,
instead of becoming zombies sleepwalking,
that will be more than, oh, more than enough.

Inspired by this favorite quote of mine:
“So many people walk around with a meaningless life. They seem half-asleep, even when they’re busy doing things they think are important. This is because they’re chasing the wrong things. The way you get meaning into your life is to devote yourself to loving others, devote yourself to your community around you, and devote yourself to creating something that gives you purpose and meaning.” 
― Mitch AlbomTuesdays with Morrie

08.30.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo by Josh Calabrese on Unsplash

In response to Poetics: A Closet Full of Shoes by kim881.
The challenge is to write a poem, of any length or form, about footwear: stilettos, Wellington boots, hobnail boots, sandals, slippers, ballet shoes – it’s up to you, just as long as the poem is new.
dverse

Blessed Bliss

bliss blows
blessings, breathes
so sweet mist of
joy to hearts
hurting, like
frozen buds
waiting for
warmth of
spring, coming
with the weightless
strands of
white dandelion
dancing, feel
the rhythm
of my patient
fingers, tap, tap,
tapping, bliss,
come, be
my blessing.

08.29.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo by Jamie Street on Unsplash

In response to Quadrille #39 by Björn Rudberg (brudberg)
Today it’s time for our returning reason to celebrate short poetry. 44 words including the word bliss. Use it as a noun, or use it as a verb ar as an adjective. Bless me with your bliss.
dverse

 

foggy borders

splat!
goes the blood
and some threads
of bleeding muscles
from his back
to the waiting
concrete wall.

bang!
goes the bullet
as cold as the heart
who pulled the trigger
to put the 17-year-old
to his final, breathless
sleep.

no more!
goes some mouths
to condemn the
brutal purging
and killing
and planting of
fired-guns and drugs
to the hands
none can know if
innocent or not.

i now wonder
where is the
foggy border
between justice
and injustice,
instant law and
due process?

maybe the
monsoon shower
will soon wash away
the kiss of blood
on that cold wall,
maybe our minds
are also fogged
by the mist of
hazy judgments
as we silently ask:
“can these killings
save us all?”

Some thoughts after another brutal killing, part of the Philippine government’s war on drugs. Sigh. Sigh.
08.23.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo by Neven Krcmarek on Unsplash

In response to Poetics: Border by Grace
My prompt today is about border, that line separating two political or geographical areas, especially countries, or the outer part or edge. More than the physcial boundaries, there are borders which are invisible, such as an imaginary, social or mental borders. These kind of borders are more challening to overcome, don’t you agree?
dverse

ending agony (WQW)

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I’m participating (finally) for the first time to my dearie Jade‘s Writer’s Quote Wednesday (WQW) and my first quote is from the Still I Rise woman, Maya Angelou and her words that have been “the force” that pushed me to write this blog almost three years ago. (Woah! Time flies! :D)

In my first post, Agony published August 28, 2014, I quoted her and said:

“It has been eight years since I dreamed of having a blog. Something I can call my own. Honestly, I have fears of bashers and grammar Nazis. People who might critique my write-ups. People who might oppose my opinions. Yes, it took me those long years to have the courage to publish my thoughts, my views and my what-not’s. Now it will be all available for the viewing and reading netizens. I am now ready for either praises or rejections, for either wow! or boo!, for anything that this blogosphere has in store for A Reading Writer like me.”

I closed the first post with: “Now my agony has ended.”

Fast forward almost three years after pressing that publish button, I am clearly far from the blogger who I was before. I’m just a reader before. A book reviewer. A fangirl of Nicholas Sparks and Mitch Albom and Jason Mraz and Sara Bareilles.

Now, I am still a reader. Still a fangirl. Still a dreamer. But now, a poetess (or I assume I am :D), a self-published author of my first baby “Between My Bleeding Lines” (a struggling one for that matter), a writer by profession and by hobby.

Has the agony ended? In telling my story, not yet.

For each day opens up a new poem. A new story. A new blank page. A new clean slate. A new struggle. A new battle. A new courage. A refilled bottle of bravery.

To write.
To live.
To dream.
To breathe (words).

For there is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.

Let’s breathe some more, shall we?

soul’s song

i wanna go where the mountains
are high enough to echo my song

song of the soul ceaselessly
gearing up to be strong,
strong enough to not
always try to belong,
belong to the world filled
with hazy right and wrong,
wrong or right, i just want
to live as if life is not long,
long enough to think
my tomorrows are like birdsongs,
birdsongs– sweet yet fleeting, soothing yet fading,
like the echo of my soul’s song.

08.16.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

Picked India Arie’s India’s Song:
I wanna go where the mountains are high enough to echo my song
I wanna go where the rivers run deep enough to drown my shame
I wanna go where the stars shine bright enough to show me the way
I wanna go where the wind calls my name

In response to Poetics: Musical Muse by  Mish
Today for Poetics, I am asking you to choose some lyrics, preferably one line from a favorite song and grow your own poem from it.
dverse

booms and bangs

boom!
crumbles the church the city prayed.

bang!
rings the house of an old friend.

boom!
explodes a truck, bodies sprayed.

bang!
runs peace, hope, in a rushed parade.

between the booms, bangs
i plead above
let this bad dream be
cursed and damned.

This is a fictional poem inspired by the still unending war in Marawi, the only Islamic city in the Philippines. I can never fathom the reasons of these groups in killing not just lives but the hopes, the future of the children left clueless and helpless in the middle of this war. May peace blossom again in this corner of my country.

08.15.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

In response to Quadrille #38 by whimsygizmo.

Today, I want us to DREAM together.

autumn spell

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in this maze of bleeding leaves
as if the mighty Him spilled red inks
on top of the lush trees and twigs
to signal the yearly seasons’ shift,

find me lurking not
beneath the tall towers of red and yellow,
find me hiding not
inside the house with the whispering cello,

find me sitting not
on the edge of the long, winding road,
find me breathing not
inside the rushing car, suddenly slowed.

one more inhale,
one more exhale,
soul elevates maybe
to heaven or to hell.

well, the view from the top
of this scarlet autumn spell
makes this final moment
a little easier.

08.14.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Shubhodeep Roy

homebound

i have wandered far
from Your loving bay,
i believed alone i
can pave my own way.

step one, two, then three
i walked away slowly
from Your presence like
a bird breaking free.

not knowing never have
You locked me inside
of Your words and light,
my God, bring me back.

08.02.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

what if?

as death is as normal as birth,
one day my ink will meet
its fading the end.
what if this poem is my last?
what if? what if?
what last lines would i want to leave?
what if? what if?
what final rhymes would i want to breathe?
what if? what if?

would i want to write
a heartfelt villanelle
to glorify the God
who made me well,
to thank the imperfect
yet loving parents
who compensated money with
their love and presence?

would i want to write
a throbbing aubade
to the he’s whom
i have loved?
fill every stanza
with bitter farewells
and warm kisses
they have forever missed out?

would i want to leave
a sweet, sweet sonnet
to the one man
who’ll have me last,
stamp every rhyme
and every line
with the promise of meeting again
inside heaven’s confines?

or would i want to leave
a freely flowing free verse,
about a life well lived
in better and in worse,
etch my last words
with gratefulness
and contentment,
for either way, i’m blessed.

what if this poem is my last?
i think i would be smiling if
this poem would be my parting gift
to those who have loved me
and i have loved unconditionally.

if this is the end for me and my poetry,
then i will park my pen,
beside my final lines and rhymes,
and then, rest peacefully.

08.02.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

sneaked in some time to post this poem after my looong hiatus. the lines:

what if this poem is my last?
what if? what if?
what last lines would i want to leave?
what if? what if?
what final rhymes would i want to breathe?
what if? what if?

are inspired by a poem by Davy D. i have a big event (at work) tomorrow and i dropped by to tell you all guys that I miss WordPress because of you all. as soon work calms a bit, i’ll go back. ❤ please don’t forget me. 🙂 Much love!


In response to The End paul scribbles.
This evening I want you to think about ‘THE END.’
dverse