I write because I read. I read because I write.
I slept on the first morning and woke up on the 27th day. Time flies seems like an overused line. But how else could I say the passing of September? The plants I tried to rear last year are now vitamins on the dried potted soil. Death is silent. Usually.Autumn is a season I have… Continue reading September of the tropics
my sweet little muse has beenasleep on a cornerdressed in specks of dust. unsure if she's down from glove punches or Hawaiian punch. i don't mixdrinks with ink. call me boringall you want. justwake my darling,fermentingmuse up. — 09.20.2022©2022 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.Photo by Diane Picchiottino on UnsplashThis work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.… Continue reading writing on writer’s block
Do the crows knowa group of them is called a murder?A murder, their lunch,delivered by guns onhumans' hands.Do the rooks wear some suit and tie, to fit their name--- a parliament. Do they get to decide wherethe next bomb willspit out its wreak? Oh, that's on us, again.These corvids probablythink these terms soundbest to describe… Continue reading i wonder
sold on a morningMay to him whosehands the clock hascolored gray, for agrave under a bowedoak tree where lieshis ring's eternalpair. — 05.04.2022©2022 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.Photo by Daniil Silantev on UnsplashThis work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. For dVerse: dVerse – Poetics – Small Change or Big Bucks
Afternoon sky, here, wears a cordial blue,a few white clouds soft glide 'bove gentle air.Even plane passengers can't smell the stewof far flung blood and sweat in missiles' lair.It is quite weird to seat and brush my hairwhen someone's head, afar, turns red in flame.If I sip my coffee, do I not carefor lives disturbed… Continue reading sunflowers aflame: a decuain*
after Caroll Crush March sun spills likea runny yolk in betweendry twigs of tall oaks. The foliaged groundwakes up, feet free of slippers crack crisp leaves with wormsbeneath. Above, early birds sing a tune only they can understand as ifhushing two melting dark-candy eyes. — 03.09.2022©2022 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.Photo by Maarten Deckers on… Continue reading komorebi*
at times wheni feel like You're just looking at me - insoaked prayers - albeit with Your eyes closed, as if Your power is to silent stare. i remember the sparrow outside my window, warm under December snow. You love me,even in silence. — 03.08.2022©2022 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.Photo via Unsplash.This work is licensed… Continue reading silent stare
second left from the oldlift, three pink babiesare sound asleep.two floors below, an oldwoman tears to see hermom who's long beengone.inside the doctor's officea family of four awaitsresults of cameras that invaded their fatheryesterday. “To everything there is a season.” Ecclesiastes 3:1 — 02.24.2022©2022 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.Photo via Unsplash.This work is licensed under a Creative Commons… Continue reading a hospital triptych
On the shores of St. Croix, jewels were found not in locked, glossy standees but in between bare sand— shards of antique china, broken by gavels of time, sneaked in nooks, crannies of the island’s beach line, some say they are from the cruising Europeans with broken wares falling, some believe they were looted, destroyed… Continue reading chaney
after Kimberly Blaeser's When We Sing of Might at 3pm, the sun wears my 20's feet. unsure how bright to glow yet certain that the west exist to swallow it like a sea's wide mouth. i am almost 30. as i blow more candles, i find myself ageing like my mother and the mothers before her.… Continue reading pocket: a 100-word story
A Reading Writer 