evening snake

Where is my home?
Outside, the evening snake is lit,

on right it’s filled with patches of white,
on left it’s a strawberry jam of red.

Wait, perhaps, it’s not a snake,
it is but, a curved paved skin of earth,

where tiny, tiny, earthlings who
think they own the world,

are scrambling inside their
wheeled machines who promised

to take them home.
Home.

Where is my home?

04.02.2019
©2019 R C. Gonzales | A Reading Writer.
All Rights Reserved.
Photo from Unsplash

For NaPoWriMo 2019: Day 2.
Today’s prompt (optional, as always) is based on this poem by Claire Wahmanholm, which transforms the natural world into an unsettled dream-place. One way it does this is by asking questions – literally. The poem not only contains questions, but ends on a question. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that similarly resists closure by ending on a question, inviting the reader to continue the process of reading (and, in some ways, writing) the poem even after the poem ends.

b o t t o m l e s s (a pantoum)

Sip those sunsets, time isn’t bottomless.
Let that cold wind kiss your deep dark tresses,
while your soul sinks with ‘nother day’s eggress.
Sshh, be still, as evening sky undresses.

Let that cold wind kiss your deep dark tresses.
Tired feet, be bare, let dusts be your toes guests.
Shh, be still, as evening sky undresses.
Solace’s not a clear map, it’s a wild quest.

Tired feet, be bare, let dusts be your toes guests,
tough, thick skin is formed with sharp thorns’ scratches.
Solace’s not a clear map, it’s a wild quest.
You’re never lost, this earth is your address.

Tough, thick skin is formed with sharp thorns’ scratches—
scars of blood-golds, only you can possess.
Yes, you’re never lost. This earth’s your address.
Sip those sunsets. Time isn’t bottomless.

03.18.2019
©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo by Cristina Gottardi on Unsplash

Inspired by dVerse Poetry–a Piece of Written Art.
My second try on dear Gina’s of Singledust prompt:
*Pantoum
The pantoum is a poetic form derived from the pantun, a Malay verse form: specifically from the pantun berkait, a series of interwoven quatrains and rhyming couplets.
Basic structure
It is similar to a villanelle with repeating lines throughout the poem. It is composed of a series of quatrains; the second and fourth lines of each stanza are repeated as the first.
The pattern continues for any number of stanzas, except for the final stanza, which differs in the repeating pattern.
The first and third lines of the last stanza are the second and fourth of the penultimate; the first line of the poem is the last line of the final stanza, and the third line of the first stanza is the second of the final.
Ideally, the meaning of lines shifts when they are repeated although the words remain exactly the same: this can be done by shifting punctuation, punning, or simply recontextualizing.
A four-stanza pantoum is common (although more may be used), and in the final stanza, lines one and three from the first stanza can be repeated, or new lines can be written.
The basic pantoum form is as follows:
Stanza 1
A
B
C
D
Stanza 2
B
E
D
F
Stanza 3
E
G
F
H
Stanza 4
G
C
H
A

a c r o n y m

Watch her arch her burdened back,
Open her bruised arms, far and wide,
Murmur tearful yet grateful chants,
As she inhales hate and breathe out
Nothing, oh nothing, but love.

03.08.2019
©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo by Larm Rmah on Unsplash

For dVerse OpenLinkNight #238

 

t w e e t s & t u r m o i l s (a haibun)

Long day, or perhaps, for me, today is longer. My head throbs, or perhaps, it is my brain complaining, as it tries to still serve my body close to collapsing. “Why am I not enough? Why can’t people work just right?” I ponder as I go out of the concrete, tall box filled with files and to do’s running after each tick tock of the clock.

In the middle of the building stood thin trees I cannot name, homes of the tiny tweeting mynas, crackling black crows, and singing Asian koels. The wooden chairs are now void of human touch. Everyone has headed towards their daily homecoming march.

While I, sit alone, blessing one wooden plank with my warmth, letting the breeze of young March wrap me inside a cool blanket, soothing my madness, lulling the worries and the anger of my chest and my mind. And then I felt the first drop.

Sunset void of blush,
earth’s ceiling dressed in sad grey.
Night sky cries with me.

03.05.2019
©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo by Virgil Cayasa on Unsplash

Inspired by dVerse Haibun Monday: March Madness

r e b i r t h ( a pantoum*)

It’s time to pick my pen,
bleeding has now begun.
This soul yearning for zen,
with strings of fears undone.

Bleeding has now begun,
scabs scratched with cruel hands.
With strings of fears undone,
lost solace sinks in shaken plans.

Scabs scratched with cruel hands.
may healing start to flow.
Lost solace sinks in shaken plans,
may peace rescue from foes.

May healing start to flow,
‘side gasping, breathing den.
May peace rescue from foes,
it’s time to pick my pen.

03.04.2019
©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo by Sarah Dorweiler on Unsplash

Inspired by dVerse Poetry Forms – The Pantoum by dearest Gina of Singledust.
*Pantoum
The pantoum is a poetic form derived from the pantun, a Malay verse form: specifically from the pantun berkait, a series of interwoven quatrains and rhyming couplets.
Basic structure
It is similar to a villanelle with repeating lines throughout the poem. It is composed of a series of quatrains; the second and fourth lines of each stanza are repeated as the first.
The pattern continues for any number of stanzas, except for the final stanza, which differs in the repeating pattern.
The first and third lines of the last stanza are the second and fourth of the penultimate; the first line of the poem is the last line of the final stanza, and the third line of the first stanza is the second of the final.
Ideally, the meaning of lines shifts when they are repeated although the words remain exactly the same: this can be done by shifting punctuation, punning, or simply recontextualizing.
A four-stanza pantoum is common (although more may be used), and in the final stanza, lines one and three from the first stanza can be repeated, or new lines can be written.
The basic pantoum form is as follows:
Stanza 1
A
B
C
D
Stanza 2
B
E
D
F
Stanza 3
E
G
F
H
Stanza 4
G
C
H
A

A Look Back to Move Forward

blue wooden door

It’s almost two in the morning, I am supposed to be sleeping, probably paddling through the river of dreams this night has to offer. My eyes are sleepy, my body at less than 5% of mortal battery, still I get up, still I write.

The soul would never let this wee hours — when the road outside closed itself to the roars of the rubber tires; when even the nocturnal insects have stopped their midnight jam; when good nights were said, when the world is quiet — be wasted without spilling what’s inside it. Why?

Because today is my birthday.

The nanosecond gap in between two different years has never made me pause, reflect, and think. But my birthdays, oh they never fail.

So tonight, if you have reached this part, forgive my grammar and spelling mistakes, please bear with me as this soul speak out through the method it has always loved — writing.

Perhaps the restlessness roots from the milestones this new year has to offer for me. I am turning 27, and perhaps 2019 is my year of bravery.

This year I will move out not just from my the comfort of my house, but from the land and water territories of my motherland, The Philippines. This year, I will be doing a milestone which for others might be too soon, but for me, is it His time.

This year is the year of changes. Major ones. To say they are not scary is hypocrisy. When I have sometime to think and pause (which rarely happens nowadays), doubts creep in. Did I decide right? Can I really do it? Am I worth their trust? Did I dive too early?

Deep inside I still feel that what I am trying to do is bigger than who I am, greater than what I can, beyond what I used to do.

But that itself is the miracle of it all.

This year is the year of bravery where the old rooms of fears must be locked, securely and tightly, and the keys of them buried six feet deep.

There is no space for fear. There are a lot for faith.

And I write this to remember that yes, my old-self you were afraid. Yes, you probably will fail (both big time and small time). Yes, you probably might cry, get frustrated, reach that brink of giving up.

But you, you must remember that when you heard the first gong of this war, you already  declared bravery, you claimed declared faith.

This ocean might be too deep for someone who cannot even swim in a lake. But you are in a ship where the captain is He who made you.

“Fear not, for I am with you. Do not be dismayed. I am your God.”

Look back. But don’t forget to move forward.

spell poem with an I

I the poet, is me the poem.

With lilting rhymes
marking the thumps
of this, this, this,
travelling heart.

With floating rhythms
concocting mem’ries–
faded and unseen–
by this, this, this,
restless mind.

With idioms and
similes, hiding the
evidences of familiar
melancholy,
and glee.

With verses sweet
oh, so, sweet,
as honey or
stinging like
a suicidal bee.

With shapes and
sizes, morphing like–
may be, maybe,
mountain, or melting
like the salted sea.

With this, this,
ten bony fingers,

with millions of nerves
and bustling synapses,

from the fenced chest,
to the skull-covered
throne of hierarchy,

this skin, this flesh,
these 206 set of bones,

are bleeding, breathing,
living, flowing poetry.

This, the poet; the poem is me.

12.11.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

Inspired by dVerse Pubtalk: Identity and Perspective.

midnight wish

open palms, wet with
salt of sweat and tears,
reach out outside as
glass pane’s fog clears,

like a yearning new branch
of a house-caged vine
bending, sneaking,
reaching out for sun,

these palms, brined with
my excreted liquids stretch out
to feel the breath of
the cold December wind,

wishing this same
midnight breeze has
kissed your oh,
so, calm sleeping face.

in one brush of air, floating,
against my skin, waiting,
i can be with you,

at least.

12.06.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

For he who has loved me wholly, written while listening to Ed Sheeran’s Autumn Leaves.

song soup

take that cup, the
china one, dusting
inside the unlit
cupboard. pour

some notes of
G and D, let
your whisking
fingers swirl,

and swirl,

in the key of
C. see how
the dancing
strings strum this
stew of melody.
now let’s

sprinkle, sprinkle,

the lettered
honey dripping
from the flower
inside your
chest, rest

not, rest not,

those inked
fingers, let not
this batter
end up a mess.

patience, more

patience, stir,
stir and stir,
until this mixture
of tune and
rune form your
tired soul’s
much needed

soup of song.

12.04.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

For dVerse Poetics: Secret Ingredient 

last leaf

cheers for choked up tears,
cries without list’ning ears.

cheers for wistful dreams
caught or lost in raging streams.

cheers for days of cavalier
where lone strength perseveres,

cheers for named fears
fin’lly found courage sears,

cheers for ‘nother year,
lost hope grows, reappears.

12.04.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

For dVerse Quadrille #70: Poems of Good Cheer