the invisible cycle: a tanka*

once smooth as petals
will shrink into a crumpled
autumn leaf, waiting
for annual earth’s melting to
fertilise spring’s kids.

11.20.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
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For dVerse MTB: Jisei (Japanese Death Poems)
The *tanka is a thirty-one-syllable poem, traditionally written in a single unbroken line. A form of waka, Japanese song or verse, tanka translates as “short song,” and is better known in its five-line, 5/7/5/7/7 syllable count form.

see me see you

earth’s coating on late autumn (a
yard of naked trees open for the
early frost) not death but a promise
stamped on your irises’ bows.

11.18.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
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For dVerse Poetics: Look into my Eyes
Did you see the hidden word? 🙂

wishes in the wind

i wish i’ve puppy-paws
to dig through the muck
of this year.

i wish i’ve puppy-eyes
to bend my
Master’s will.

i wish i’ve a puppy-nose
to smell happiness
from a mile.

i wish i need not
to wish for a real,
real smile.

11.03.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
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For dVerse In need of a happiness project?

hell’s window

there is a painting
outside my window,

hell magneting
the day sun’s glow.

stain of last night
rests on my pillow—

my unraveling
with moonlight’s bow.

feels a few feet from
my reach, the sky,

if only dusk can
give me wings to fly.

10.20.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
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For dVerse Quadrille #114 – Poetical Magnetism
Finally, a quadrille after a looong time. ❤

green thumb

BEFORE

voice can be
from the rolling of your
fearless tongue or from
the scribbling of your
shaky fingers. neither
is greater, as long
as they are yours.
yours. yours. from
the ripples of your
chest, their waves
can stir one heart
to move from the
dark west to a
brighter south.
because your
words are power.
you are.

AFTER

voice rolls like a red-
carpet tongue, plants
hope like a green-
thumbed gardener.
neither is greater, as
long as they are yours.
yours. yours. chest
ripples. stirring boats
of breath away from
the midnight west
towards the dawning
south. your words
are power. you are.

09.11.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
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For dVerse MTB, Write like a dog, edit like a cat…

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
your tongue not dared say,
with dark whispers saying
“it’s far as night and day”.

but ebb and flow goes
the salty, blue sea,
the waves will form and
foam to surprise thee.

in this life, i’ve learned,
what’s meant to be yours
will always find its way back
to your waiting, wheat shores.

sit by the sand,
sip some warm tea,
remember. this waiting
will shape who you’ll be.

08.26.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
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For dVerse Poetics I am hosting today: Poetics: Waiting on Wheat

steps to stay sane: a quadrille

fingers bumbling on
blank spaces of both
the web and the tree’s skin.

grabbing yellows from
bumblebees to paint
sunsets where freedom wins.

stirring orange from
dawn to make a cup
of giggling cinnamon.

stealing sweetness
from apple’s bum
to have some sanity won.

08.25.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
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For dVerse Quadrille #110: Shall we bum around a bit?

shedding: a haiku

choir of crickets hum
tonight’s final song, a clown
sheds its mask, alone.

08.20.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
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For dVerse Poetics — Clowning Around

tasting silence: a 100-word story

photo-1497006638916-1021f5d5b02b

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 cold against my wrinkled touch. Her lungs ceased breathing. Her kidneys rested. Her once soft lips, mummed with tubes.

When it is over, said and done, it was a time, and there was never enough of it.

I would give everything just to hear her laugh again.

08.18.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
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Creative Commons License
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For dVerse Prosery Monday: A Time
Today, the heaven opens for a lovely and quiet soul, my Pishimoni who welcomed me to the family and loved me since day 1. You are loved, Pishimoni. Tomar kotha mone porche.

on borders and tea

Processed with VSCOcam with a6 preset

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
green tea to cheer up my gut—
digest, digest, digest, faster,
faster, faster. i remember, my feet
as pink as a newborn mouse, a sign

of its tiredness carrying the excess
number on the weighing scale.
since fourth grade. i learned
that fat and beautiful is never
used in one sentence.

i think i need a cup of chamomile now.

08.14.2020
©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 MTB: Stream of Consciousness Writing
Briefly: In stream-of-consciousness writing, the poet or novelist turns to the flow of ideas, observations and emotions that invade our consciousness, many times hovering just below the surface. Novelist Virginia Woolf described this process as “an incessant shower of innumerable atoms.”