calendar leaves

One year ago I dived into another job, left the comfort of the four corners of a white room filled with the smell of fresh news and sweet scent of deadline sweats. With closed fists and shut eyes, I took a leap away from comfort to embrace the unknown new.

Now here we go again.

My soul sifts the autumn’s apple fume slowly succumbing to the mint breeze of winter. My bare feet moving inch per inch towards another cliff too stiff for me to see the bottom cloaked in dead black pitch. My ears can hear the soft crackles of January crackers and a faint love song of June’s giggling sea.

Dry calendar leaves
falling with each dusk and dawn.
Brave breaths ebb and flow.

—

10.30.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

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For dVerse Haibun Monday – Transitions.

m y c a r r i e r

Elevated eyes can see the throngs of the wheeled machines this morning. Like row of soldiers, though not marching nor moving under the 9 a.m. sun burning.

Feet need not to tiptoe to see the jeepneys, cars, and buses, wearing the colors of the vibrant Philippines, yet tainted with the grey blanket of Manila’s dust and dirt. Honking to complain of the many minutes wasted, as if noise can widen the paved yet narrow road.

After a few steps from the rusted footbridge to the equally rugged jeep destined to be my carrier today, I embarked on my own journey to start the day’s routine. Perhaps, vehicles are armies with different passengers and captains.

Tired rubber wheels screech
against sunbathed, asphalt road,
destination reached.

—

10.02.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

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For dVerse Haibun Monday: Murmuration.

Fading Periods

No apologies, no regrets, not a single sorry, from the old mouth of the last man standing from the crew who ended the second world war.

Japan started the conflict, that was how the US closed it— with two exploding periods. Periods that bent the knees of the Land of the Rising Sun. Periods that marked how ending wars could be done.

Fading is the warning of the first nuke’s gravity. There might be more to come, oh, we’ll see. From one bloodshed to another, I wonder when will human lives weigh more than a bloody war.

A fragile new bud
tries to crack leftover snow—
men kill to survive.

—

08.03.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

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Inspired by this article.

For dVerse Haibun Monday — Peace Memorial.

 

weightless (a haiku)

Autumn window smiles
as weightless leaves start falling.
Yes, you can let go.

—

03.23.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

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In response to Blogging from A to Z Challenge and NaPoWriMo 2018.

H is for Haiku.

Haiku are:

1. syllabic (17 syllables or less)

2. an imagist poem (draws the emotion from the image). Concrete images are described. It is important in haiku to deemphasize the ego. The subject, not the poet is what focuses the haiku. “One of the most common characteristics of haiku,. . . . is silence.” Bruce Ross. The words silence or stillness can be used in haiku, but it is the concrete image as described that makes the reader respond to the feeling of silence.

3. written in the moment. The past can be referred to as long as it doesn’t overpower the present.

4. one of two forms “traditional” or “modern”
        “traditional” requires a season be named and images and emotions be drawn from of nature.
        “modern” can be images of relationship, personality, experience, etc

5. often a tristich, commonly written in 3 lines. BUT, it can be written in 1 or 2 lines. (if not broken into 3 lines, the haiku should still follow the pattern of 3 units, 2 images that either conflict or expand resulting in insight.) The common break down of syllables:

   • L1 5 syllables describes image (traditional name season)

   • L2 7 syllables, adds conflicting image or expands first image

   • L3 5 syllables provide insight (the ah ha! moment) through a juxtaposed image.

W i n t e r G r e y

Dressed in winter grey, the fading evening slowly makes way for the still sleepy, Himalayan sun. Rising to kiss the sneaking peaks of Mt. Kanchenjunga and Mt. Kabru, the first morning rays gently open my eyelids to show the gem beside me.

He wears a thick jacket, buried under our comforting, shared blanket. His arms wrapped on mine. His heartbeat with his rhythmic breaths create my early love song. My heart, listens, sighs, smiles.

Two frozen peaks wait
outside the grey-painted room,
he wears summer’s warmth.

—

02.20.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

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In response to dVerse The beauty and the misery of grey – Haibun Monday

H i s T o u c h ( A Haiku )

His touch holds the warmth
of a dawning summer sun,
a dozed heart wakes up.

—

02.15.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

 

season singing

traversing the same route five times a week presents me a repeating view again and again and yes, again. the sight of houses, from well-made to thatched huts, occasionally interrupted by massive spaces filled with wild grasses or field of rice stalks, and once with a huge mall. the neighborhood will then be replaced with the passing silhouettes of trees lined prim and proper along the edge of the paved, wide highways. then the homes and factories and taller buildings will wave hello as if to signal the end of the highway and the beginning of the honk-filed and jam-packed city road.

with every single day passing, only the heat of the sun and the cold raindrop dripping are the signals of the Philippines’ two seasons’ ending — wet and dry. (and most of the time, like now, they seem to be fond of overlapping. like summer for the day and thunder and lightning for the evening.) as much as i wish to witness the season’s undressing from winter, spring, summer, and fall, i am only blessed by the summer sun and the sometimes gentle sometimes harsh monsoon showers. 

yet still blessed, yes, for i am among the billions of soul experiencing the warmth of morning sun and the darkness of the velvet evening. to live and to be living, itself is a blessing.

the summer sun and
the monsoon rain take their turns.
my grateful heart sings.

—

09.05.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo by Devil_Jameson RAGE on Unsplash

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In response to Haibun Monday: Komorebi by Toni of kanzensakura.

I would like you all to write a haibun about how you are affected by season changes, if you do any special activities, what you have done in the past or have planned for the future season between seasons

 

Fading Photograph

i stumbled upon my five-year-old smile pasted on a fading photograph. it was just me and my sister. she was crying. i was clapping. (mean me?). my small mouth was wide open, wide enough to show the three blank, toothless-gaps. while my sister, a year younger, was red in her wailing feat.

looking at the once child me, i wonder when did my innocence fade? where did my child-like, pure bliss go? who snatched my genuine smile? is it the cruel world? or is it my own bitter words? but then the present mirror shows i may be tired, i may be sometimes sad, but i am braver. i am kinder. i am stronger. i am broken but better.

storm-battered sappling
turns into a dauntless tree.
breaking’s bravery.

—

05.24.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

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In response to Haibun Monday #38, Kintsugi: The Art of Broken Pieces by Grace.

Our challenge is to write about finding beauty in the broken pieces or imperfection and/or the process of mending the broken pieces. You can write about a “broken” object, cityscape or landscape, or personal experience of mending and embracing imperfections. Please write 1 to 2 tight paragraphs of “prose”, followed by a nature-themed “haiku”.

Being that this is Haibun Monday, please write a haibun based on the prompt, ending with a seasonal haiku.   Don’t forget to visit and comment on others poetry, especially to those who have visited you.

Fog of Fear

inside a cage filled with fog of fear, she stays alone trying to heal the scars of the past of all that is done, the ache of the present she cannot share with anyone, the uncertainty of the future coming with each rising sun.

will i be able to stop looking back and leave the footsteps i have made? will i regret the decisions i have made? will i be able to see a better tomorrow or all that’s left is heart’s sorrow?

as morning rays slip through the tiny cracks of her cave, she cannot help but let hope grow inside. with the leftover, brittle faith she holds on to, she’s coming out. she’s coming out.

she finally choose
to sink not in fog of fear
but in sea of faith.

—

P.S. Yes, she is me.

P.P.S. Written with a tear-stained face and with ears listening to this song:

Your love so deep is washing over me
Your face is all I seek, you are my everything
Jesus Christ, You are my one desire
Lord, hear my only cry, to know you all my life

—

04.18.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

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In response to dVerse‘s Haibun Monday: The only thing we have to fear… by hayesspencer (Toni).

Free Feather

Feather freely floats
‘bove seas, below sky, ‘tween winds.
Be like that feather.

—

©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.

Photo credit: Unsplash

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In response to dVerse‘s Come Fly with Me—dVerse Poetics by Victoria C. Slotto who wrote her very own Feather Art.

For today’s Poetics, I ask you to look at feathers. Perhaps you will write of a bird, whether humble or glorious in its array, or maybe you will zero in on an individual feather in its detail, writing along the line of imagist poets. How about feathers as a metaphor, or the function of these structures as they serve our avian friends? You may even choose to get a bit spicy, but what would I know about that? Can you hear feathers? Smell, taste or touch them? What do they mean in certain cultural or religious traditions such as those of Native Americans? There are so many possible ways to fly with this prompt.