one of eight mouths

rain, they say, is the heaven pouring blessings. when i was a child, it means flood, tickling my chubby ankles, choking my father’s chest once. it means waiting for free food rations and escaped shrimps from spilling ponds. it is a memorised, annual struggle. a sweet, repeating chapter of our wooden, dining table (too smallContinue reading “one of eight mouths”

wait on wheat

ebb and flow goes the salty, blue sea, how many seashells has it robbed from thee? may they be conch filled with your childhood dreams, or the prayers of your aged-mind’s streams, may they be shell-hearts you’ve always long to hold, too sharp to touch, too tough to mold, or perhaps a silent wish yourContinue reading “wait on wheat”

steps to stay sane: a quadrille

fingers bumbling onblank spaces of boththe web and the tree’s skin. grabbing yellows frombumblebees to paintsunsets where freedom wins. stirring orange fromdawn to make a cupof giggling cinnamon. stealing sweetnessfrom apple’s bum—to have some sanity won. — 08.25.2020©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.Photo via Unsplash This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0Continue reading “steps to stay sane: a quadrille”

shedding: a haiku

choir of crickets humtonight’s final song, a clown sheds its mask, alone. — 08.20.2020©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.Photo via Unsplash This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. — For dVerse Poetics — Clowning Around

tasting silence: a 100-word story

Silence has always tasted sweet since I was a young boy. I find bliss in building a world of my own, alone. Now, with only the whirring of her ventilator, my tongue is filled with bitter gourd juice, swimming through the boulder inside my throat. Her hands, I’ve held since she was 24, feel coldContinue reading “tasting silence: a 100-word story”

on borders and tea

brown, a burnt one, is the colour of this table with edges as perfect as the borders of some nations with OCD in geometry, atop there are tea, two types, the calming chamomile i take during those days of the month because it helps relieve the cruel clenching of my ovary, and there is greenContinue reading “on borders and tea”

praying nets

mix mud and heavy raindrops, a murky puddle void of the skill to mirror even the slightest silhouette, pour some more, pour some more, until it overpours into a snake-shaped waterway flowing gently in May, in a rugged rush on monsoon days, either way, on it, lays the floating wood and men with paddle armsContinue reading “praying nets”

missing thumb: a quadrille

murderer. i am a murderer of eight. eight innocent lives my hands without green thumbs have ended the purple garden of eight eggplants. i was 15. since then i’ve not tried to get my fingers dirty, afraid to be a murderer for the ninth time. — 08.11.2020 ©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved. PhotoContinue reading “missing thumb: a quadrille”

camera shy: a haibun

Three photos have immortalised the birthday my mind cannot remember but will always be dear to me. The first photo was of me and my Tatay (father) who looks like a young TV actor with his Colgate-commercial-smile and polished moustache. My chubby, teenie tiny fingers were clinging tightly to his shirt, perhaps its instinct toContinue reading “camera shy: a haibun”