I write because I read. I read because I write.
A bat flies towards the berry tree. If it has a fruit on its mouth, it's too dark to see. The dinner's curry cooks with cumin, turmeric, kashmiri, with some cinnamon bark and cardamom, too. Afternoon's rain anointed the soil just before the stars woke up. The spiced-breeze eats up the last tinge of petrichor.… Continue reading moon’s eyes: a haibun
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
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 to… Continue reading camera shy: a haibun
A few days before this moment, online weather forecast reported not just rainfall but a thunderstorm. More than half of June was eaten by the summer sun, it should not be surprising if the Philippines' monsoon is here to take its part of the pie. Still, palm to palm, my love and I send whispers… Continue reading our shining moment: a haibun
Piet Mondrian, ‘Broadway Boogie Woogie, 1942-43, moma.org More than a year I have been living inside this box with no divisions. Cream borders keep me company without judging my daily dancing alone and my full-hearted concerts on my own. Identical squared-rooms from my right and left stood the same size as mine. The closest left… Continue reading on aliens and cream borders: a haibun
Five decades of wandering, in every step perhaps your heels planted seedlings of words, of love, of wisdom, of life. So much of your history remains a hidden story. We're you a slave, a samurai, a cook, a poet, or everything and more? We can read scrolls after scrolls but never can we know. A… Continue reading the garden of 17 syllables: a haibun for Basho
Once I have read the stars are becoming less visible more than ever. With human knowledge soaring higher and higher (I hope we will not find our specie crashing soon), our mortal hands (tainted with scarlet juice of many wars) have made our earth-based stars, letting our eyes and minds awake round the clock. Last… Continue reading so we think we’re smarter than God: a haibun
For some reasons, a year ending has never made me reflective. I always feel like my heart is sprinkled with pastel joy from December until the first few days of January. It is the time of rest, no, not really. It is the time of doing and travelling a lot, but not for salary, but… Continue reading find me inside this hodgepodge: a haibun
asphalt road in white, absent leaves, abandoned twigs, fresh year undresses. — 12.16.2019 ©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved. Photo via Unsplash — For Frank's #Haikai Challenge #117 (12/14/19): Midwinter (mafuyu)/Midsummer (manastu) #haiku #senryu #haibun #tanka #haiga #renga My upcoming book, Poems for S is up for pre-order. See it here: https://amzn.to/2CSrGAU .
Man-made machines flying will not satiate humans' dreaming from the clouds to the moon, even Mars is under planning. A brave moth hunting for the fire that can burn its metal wings. — 07.21.2019 ©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved. Photo by David Dibert on Unsplash In response to Sonya of Only 100 Words‘ Three Line Tales, Week 181 If you want to… Continue reading on Mars and moth
