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
small to sit eight
mouths) but was
never empty. not

even once.

09.2020
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For dVerse Come and take a selfie!

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
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For dVerse Poetics I am hosting today: Poetics: Waiting on Wheat

praying nets

waka

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 arms
away from their thatched
huts they sail, and sail,
and sail, before even the
first breaking of  day,

throwing their nets with
their lean, chocolate arms,
add a whisper, begging
the god of fishes for
a good harvest,

to let this day fill
the chipped, cold plates
waiting back home.

08.12.2020
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For dVerse Come sail
The prompt today made me remember the days in my childhood town where the river is within arms reach, where my grandpa was a fisherman among the many men of our town.

come in, June

brian-patrick-tagalog-Zcl9rMwflmw-unsplash

Come in.
I am sorry for the
lack of energy,
would you like
some lukewarm
tea? Well, we
are tired zombies,
avoiding (or wait-
ing) for the wind
of death, we are
suffocated not by
the unseen killer
but the cruel knee
on our throat for
centuries, (we
chose to close
our eyes on) well,
probably you know
what May did, and
all the months before,
yes, there were
some cherry blossoms
blooming, some
midnights with
crickets singing, but,
our muscle wings
are quite rusting, our
tiled feet itching, this
year is a candle
dying, fading like a
half evening
moon, so June, can you
please bring healing

soon?

06.01.2020
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hopping inside a wonderland

Processed with VSCOcam with a6 preset

if i should have a chosen pet
perhaps it will be a little bunny,

(i once had one, but she died
just after day one choked on a
loaf bread my dumb 18-year-old
mind foolishly fed it; rest in
peace, mogu, i still feel sorry
for what i did to you)

running around my
beige-tiled floor leaving
chocolate-poop drops
as it jumps across,

i’ll probably read it
some of my unfinished lines,
wait for its ears to
stand tall as if it
can hear the yearning
song inside my rhymes.

if i should have a chosen pet
perhaps it will be a little bunny,
but it is too late now to have one
so i’ll cocoon myself with
my trusted company—

scented words and poetry.

04.22.2020
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For dVerse Poetics: Companions

 

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
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For NaPoWriMo 2020: Day Four

love in the time of coronavirus

Our love in the time
of coronavirus is
thousands of miles away,

my tourist visa got
cancelled before it sees
the light of another Indian day,

his feet are planted,
prohibited to fly to Malaysia’s sky,
because it is safer that way,

in the end, perhaps, nation
gates are needed to be locked
to keep the virus at bay,

regardless of the many
hearts sleeping on empty beds,
dreaming on sadness’ sleigh,

regardless of some pair of hands
burdened but enduring,
without home-arms to rest and stay,

like our love in the time
of coronavirus, parted
thousands of miles away,

but we are both here
filled with more love,
blessed on our own way,

at the back of our
surrendered hands—
a constant prayer,

to be inside a
single roof together,
one day. One day.

Note: Title inspired by the classic novel Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
03.2020
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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
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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
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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!

wish come true

You are asking why
I haven’t been writing
lately about love,
well, it’s because

you do not utter
a wish every night
once you can already
hold it with your

bare hands. So why

I haven’t been
writing about love
it’s because I
already have

you.

r. c. gonzales – roy | page 138 of Poems for S
Sharing with you some excerpts of my poetry book, Poems for S!
Kindle and paperback available here: https://amzn.to/379k2Qd

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