Under the bleeding sky
welcoming dawn dressed
in scintillating virgin
rays of the sun fresh from
its nightlong slumber,

breathe in, breathe out.

Feel your beating chest,
smell your flowing breath,
cherish this moment with
no one but yourself.

©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

In response to dVerse Soul gazing

my sun

My love affair with words and rhymes started when I was a kid. I used to win slogan making contests, I used to sing songs with rhyming lyrics. Then I came across William Wordsworth’s “Daffodils”— the first seed of poetry planted inside me. Though my writing heart like Wordsworth’s cloud, wandered far and long. Aside from love notes in rhyming stanzas, I don’t really know much about poems. Then in 2015, I stumbled upon WordPress Poetry 101. With skilled and experienced poets I felt like a child on her first day in kindergarten. Clueless. Intimidated. Yet, deep inside determined.

After a few tries with rhymes and forms, the first haiku, the first sonnet, the first tanka, and then more free verses, I found the rhythm of my pen. Slowly, I befriended the beating ink flowing inside me, ever since. I found my soul’s oxygen. I started breathing again.

Here comes summer rays,
parting the veil of winter.
Poetry, my sun.

©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

In response to dVerse Haibun Monday: Who? What? Why?

bone and brain

Unbreakable bone
walled with
collagen and calcium,
ounce for ounce is
stronger than
a bar of steel.

Soft yet complex brain
tangled with
circuits of neurons
and nerves, byte per byte is
better than
a super computer.

Your anatomy is divine.
You’re not a super hero.
You’re a super human.

©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

In response to dVerse Super me! (as in the verb)

f r o z e n f i r e

Himalayan mountains whisper
their almost zero degree

the choral of crickets
sings their nightly

the rare blue blood moon
leaks its silent yet
shining beams,

under layers of thick fabric,
behind the speechless,
wooden door,

we set the frozen world
on fire.

©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

In response to dVerse Quadrille #52 Let’s Fire it Up

b r a v e b o n e s

Trace my back
and find the fading tracks
of the fearless women
who first carried
the brave bones
of my spine.

I breathe the same
aflamed breath of
those Eves
I met and haven’t
who died and lived
before my birth.

Inside me flows
the blood destined
to survive.
My mother and
the many mothers
before her did.

I won’t let the world
tell me otherwise.

©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

For all the dauntless females! Today is not our day.
It’s everyday!

Book Review: When Breath Becomes Air

When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi
Rating: ❤❤❤❤

What is it about: At the age of thirty-six, on the verge of completing a decade’s worth of training as a neurosurgeon, Paul Kalanithi was diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer. One day he was a doctor treating the dying, and the next he was a patient struggling to live. And just like that, the future he and his wife had imagined evaporated. When Breath Becomes Air chronicles Kalanithi’s transformation from a naïve medical student “possessed,” as he wrote, “by the question of what, given that all organisms die, makes a virtuous and meaningful life” into a neurosurgeon at Stanford working in the brain, the most critical place for human identity, and finally into a patient and new father confronting his own mortality. 

What makes life worth living in the face of death? What do you do when the future, no longer a ladder toward your goals in life, flattens out into a perpetual present? What does it mean to have a child, to nurture a new life as another fades away? These are some of the questions Kalanithi wrestles with in this profoundly moving, exquisitely observed memoir. 

Paul Kalanithi died in March 2015, while working on this book, yet his words live on as a guide and a gift to us all. “I began to realize that coming face to face with my own mortality, in a sense, had changed nothing and everything,” he wrote. “Seven words from Samuel Beckett began to repeat in my head: ‘I can’t go on. I’ll go on.'” When Breath Becomes Air is an unforgettable, life-affirming reflection on the challenge of facing death and on the relationship between doctor and patient, from a brilliant writer who became both.

What I Love: Die with dignity.

It’s the clarion call of Paul Kalanithi’s words carried in his posthumously published book, When Breath Becomes Air.

I ended up sobbing, with eyes swollen but it is a worth it less-than 200-page journey.

Travelling inside the mind and heart and soul of a dying doctor, who had always searched for life’s meaning is enlightening and moving.

Reading about death has always woke up the mortal in me. This is maybe why I am so fond of Mitch Albom’s books. Books about dying breathe life back to my purpose. My life’s meaning.

Why am I here?
What am I doing?
What makes life worth living?

What I Don’t Love Much: While the ending made me cry, it’s moving. So I have nothing to not like about this book.

Wise Words:

“I can’t go on. I’ll go on.” 

“You can’t ever reach perfection, but you can believe in an asymptote toward which you are ceaselessly striving.” 

“Life wasn’t about avoiding suffering.” 

“Human knowledge is never contained in one person. It grows from the relationships we create between each other and the world, and still it is never complete.” 

“The main message of Jesus, I believed, is that mercy trumps justice every time.”

©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photos and Story Summary: Goodreads and Unsplash



orange veil


Steps. More steps.

Pointed heels tap, tapping,
Hard soles clank, clanking,
against the tiled, abused floor.

The invading final rays
of the setting sun
again entered unwelcome,
between the squared gaps
of the rusting wired fence.

The outside world’s noise,
helped him in keeping me silent.
Even the orange veil connived
in hiding me beneath his body’s blanket.

Office hours again reached its end.
So as my fading breath.

Stab. More stabs.

©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo and edit via my dearest Shubhodeep Roy

T o M y D e m o n s

As I grew older I learned
to stop hating you,
and start loving you.

For your ruthlessness
is the lamp showing me
to keep my heart kind.

For your darkness
is the night teaching me to find
my own light,

no matter how hard.

©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash