if only my blanket can speak

rarely do i dream, or
perhaps remember my
private drama series
playing under the

consciousness i can
not deliberately reach,

though when i was
able to grasp some
bits of pieces of an
already fading mid-
night memory it
will always involve

a plane crash-
ing (with full hollywood
exaggerated effects
of giant smoke and
angry fire) either
wreaking against the
vast thigh of a
meadow or on
poorly-spaced
gossiping roofs,
i have since

googled its meaning
resulting in more
confusion than
peaceful resolution
but at the back
of my honest
thought, i know,
perhaps the plane
is me, my ego, my
pride, my desire

to soar ever so high
wrapped with the
a bitter-tasting dread
of committing a
mistake permanent
and lasting, maybe,

maybe i have always
been afraid of falling

maybe i have always
been afraid of failing
.

04.04.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Catrin Welz-Stein
Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
For NaPoWriMo 2020: Day Four

variations of the word uprooting

as a toddler these chubby
set of tiny toes were
buried in brown cake
of forest’s earth, as the
plump fingers reach out
for blood-red wild berries,

as a student these
leather-covered soles
wandered through cemented
schools, universities, as
the mind gulps data after
data, oh so, committedly,

as a two-decade lady
these desperate feet
tried (begged) to belong
in carpeted corporate
floor, as the pocket gaped
with empty plates
waiting at home.

at present, these trotters
gait with certainty from
one plane to another,
on concrete cities to
Himalayan snowed floors,
with the same soft chin
looking up to thank
Him who is above,

prayers work. prayers work.

02.26.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash
Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
For dVerse Poetics: Impermanence
…I’d like you to think about impermanence, things that are transient, or things that have passed their time. If you want to stick to the seasons, nature, or the weather, that’s fine, but I’d like to challenge you to try to come up with something different or unusual. Your poem can be in any style or form.

soft arms and midnight crumbs

soft arms of dawn
sneaks in between
half-closed
bedroom blinds,

(wake up, wake up)

infant sunshine
sweeps leftover
crumbs of late
stars’ snack,

(come back, come back)

i sat, unmoving,
inside the swaying
boat of an
ended dream,

(wishing, wishing)

our sheet isn’t
empty of you.

01.29.2020
©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash
For dVerse Tuesday Poetics with Lillian.
how about writing a poem that takes us inside a dream? It can be your dream or someone else’s dream. Are you sleeping in a bed during this dream? Sitting on a train dozing? Leaning up against a tree staring at the clouds? Does your dream take you beneath the seas? Into the clouds? Or maybe you’re on a stage flooded with the smoke of dry ice? Is your dream triggered by a scent? By a song? By a photo you came across? Let your imagination drift and take us with you into a dream!

f l u i d f a i t h

Feeble waves made
of infant dusk’s soft wind,

liquid mirror glows
with sunset’s pastel rind.

Fallen plumeria floats,
decaying but still blooming,

faith, be fluid like water —
rippling, shape-shifting, unending.

04.10.2019
©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo by Chelsea Audibert on Unsplash

Inspired by dVerse Poetics: Water, Water Everywhere . 

barefoot (a wayra)

Wayward, barefoot steps
search the path untamed, cluttered
with rocks of doubts, holes of flaws
ready for blisters, scars,
knowing to rise means to fall first.

03.26.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

In response to Blogging from A to Z Challenge and NaPoWriMo 2018.
W is for Wayra.
The Wayra (Quechua – wind ) is a popular verse form of Peru and Bolivia. It appears it originated in an indigenous Quechua language but has found its way into Spanish literature. It is a short syllabic verse form found at Vole Central and some other sites around the internet.
The elements of the Wayra are:
  1. a pentastich, a poem in 5 lines.
  2. syllabic, 5-7-7-6-8
  3. unrhymed.

images.jpeg

winged dreams (a lanterne)

Let
hope be
the wings of
your uncharted
dreams.

03.23.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

In response to Blogging from A to Z Challenge and NaPoWriMo 2018.
L is for Lanterne.
Lanterne are:
  1. a pentastich, a poem in 5 lines.
  2. syllabic, 1-2-3-4-1 syllables per line.
  3. is composed with no punctuation and no rhyme, each end-word should be strong.
  4. centered on the page. Since this is a concrete or shape poem, the length of the word on the page factors into the equation, syllable count is not enough to determine the selection.
  5. title optional.

images.jpeg

i am still here

20171012_112933

i am still here,
juggling balls named
work, poetry, and life.

i am still here,
trying hard to tally
the shifting of day and nights.

i am still here,
working ceaselessly to support
those who matter.

i am still here,
resuscitating the heart
of a hopeless dreamer.

i am still here,
lurking in between the blank pages
filled with waiting words.

i am still here,
discovering and hunting
this fleeting life’s worth.

i am still here
to write, to breathe.

i hope, you are
still there.

10.25.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo of me in Phuket, Thailand

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.

Confessions, ramblings, and everything in between

Over an hour. That is how long I have been staring at my screen flashing an unfinished article I should finish before the day ends.

Eight tabs. That’s how many articles and resources I have read to be able to start writing and get my mind do what it’s supposed to do.

Numerous words written and deleted. That’s how I have been trying (badly) to write and write and write.

But nothing. My mind is not at it.

Like a boat freely sailing, wandering, on the vastness of the endless sea, my mind seems to be here but nowhere, here but elsewhere. It would be ungrateful to say I feel like a criminal jailed to be stuck in my office chair but that’s how I have been feeling lately.

It took me years to land a job related to my course, Journalism. I have been here for almost three years now and yes, it is fulfilling, tiring, but exciting. But there are days when you want to be as free as a bird. To be a writer tucked under her blanket just reading and writing.

It might be because of age but lately, I have been yearning for a simpler life. A life in a quaint house, by the sea and near the forest where I can wander and wonder. A life without a rushed phase. A life not limited by deadlines. A life not commanded by corporate bosses.

But that kind of life, as simple as it may sound, is too expensive. Expensive because you need money while living a life away from the city and the 9-to-5 job. Because I have responsibilities, and I have a life that isn’t only about me.

It’s been almost two months since I released my debut book, and I am quietly wishing and praying for its success because I dream to be like Lang Leav. Living in New Zealand, writing. But the road to becoming like her seems foggy and bumpy. Am I losing faith? Maybe.

I may not be hungry to make millions for my book, but I am dreaming of living a life as a writer. A creative one. Not someone locked inside a corporate box. But then as the eldest daughter, I got to move. I got to earn. For the family.

How can I pursue my passion and provide for the family? That I have yet to find out. And yes, I am trying to knock doors and windows to turn my dreams into reality.

Like what Ms. Maya Angelou told me again last week, “All great achievements require time.” I need patience and endurance. But most of all faith.

Faith that my time will come. Faith that my book’s time will come. Faith that everything happens for a reason. Faith that no time is wasted. Faith in things I cannot see as of the moment. Faith that He is moving and guiding me.

Easier said than done, I’m trying. Every single day.

For now, let me get back and write the article I need to finish today.

 

Crossing (Her) Bridge

Sweaty, cold hands grip the cold rails,
agonized eyes stare at her almost fading trails–
footprints of all she has done,
mud piles of all her missed fun,
holed-patches of all she has lost,
unturned stones of her dreams still at frost.

Waiting lungs heave one deep, deep breath,
shaky foot finally decided to take its first step–
towards a foggy future she has yet to know,
towards a misty tomorrow no crystal ball can show.

With a hoping heart cloaked with lit-up love,
with a warrior soul armored with fearless faith,
she runs and crosses her own unsteady bridge,
away from her yesterday’s oh, so useless weights.

01.12.2014
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: Unsplash

In response to dVerse‘s Poetics: Abridged Version by the beautifully-hearted lillian.
Note: This is what happens when your 25th birthday is less than two weeks away. 😉 And it is fascinating that my last dVerse-inspired poem is also about bridges. ❤ 

dverse