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…

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…

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.…

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…

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: a pentastich, a poem in 5 lines. syllabic, 1-2-3-4-1 syllables per line. is composed with no punctuation and no rhyme,…

i am still here

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…

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…

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…

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…