choir of crickets hum
tonight’s final song, a clown
sheds its mask, alone.
—
shedding: a haiku
Tag: haiku
camera shy: a haibun
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 know that someone who will keep me safe will be him. My eyes wide with fear, perhaps I’ve always hated the camera ever since.
The second photo was with my Nanay (mother) whose free-of-wrinkle face clearly wore her youth. She was wearing a loose shirt, her eyes mirroring my uncertainty, a feeling understandable for a woman who birthed a baby at her twenty.
The last one was me and the gifts I’ve received, I stood with the help of a walker as my knees are too weak to support my weight. I cannot remember the toys, the balloons, the cake, the guests, the clothes of that day. But with these photos I know one constant thing, I was loved and I am loved since the beginning.
Mem’ry of the first
birthday fades like rays of May—
only love remains.
—
08.04.2020
©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 Haibun Monday: Birthday
our shining moment: 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 every night before this day, asking for some sunshine.
I was not able to sleep that night, not because of nerves but because the camera crew and the makeup team have started to arrive as early as 2 o’clock in the morning. With surprise sighs, I watched the queen burning ball leaving its slumber, at 6 o’clock it has reached its full glory.
As my feet walk on the sand-aisle lined with baby’s breaths and asters, there were summer birds singing, some gentle waves crashing, but my favourite thing was his eyes, his Indian eyes, wet but smiling while waiting for me to reach him. I thank God for him, for this moment free of thunder and lightning.
Two lips utter vows
with glittered sea as witness—
tall, palm trees giggle.
—
06.23.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
—
For dVerse Traditional writing – on a shining topic!
on aliens and cream borders: 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 one is usually abandoned, an Airbnb available online. The room directly on my right has been occupied by another breath just a couple of weeks ago. We share the same rightful owner, but we remain nameless faces, after coming across each other once.
Wide glass window panes
taste the same April sky’s rage,
walls cage alien guests.
—
05.26.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
—
For dVerse Haibun Monday: Meet Piet .
For some reasons, the image above reminds me of my apartment. The many identical doors housing strangers side by side.
the garden of 17 syllables: a haibun for Basho
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 beautiful name you gifted yourself, Basho, after your beloved word-artist Li Po which carries the tart taste of a white plum. But no, plum did not win over your favourite plant — banana. In 17 syllables you have transformed a pair of cotyledons to a blooming spring’s cherry blossom of poetry. Until Autumn came to dry your ink in a field of golden, lifeless weeds.
short fifty years of
singing cuckoos, sorrowed snows,
timeless lines remain.
—
04.28.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo by me
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
—
For dVerse Haibun Monday 4/27/20: A Portrait of Two Masters
Basho’s last words:
旅に病んで夢は枯野をかけ廻る tabi ni yande / yume wa kareno wo / kake meguru
falling sick on a journey / my dream goes wandering / over a field of dried grass
so we think we’re smarter than God: a haibun
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 month I went to a remote village tucked inside the snow-covered arms of the Indian Himalayas, almost 10,000 feet above the sea. There, oh there, the hidden stars stripped bare in front of me. I am again reminded of how significant and insignificant my breath is, our breaths are. One day, warm oxygen. Another, floating with frozen air.
Blushed Mars giggles with
blinking February stars,
nothing beats His hands.
—
03.03.2020
©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 Haibun Monday 3/2/2020: Mars
Whether it’s the God of War or the Red Planet, write your haibun that alludes to Mars.
Remember, a haibun is combination of prose and haiku. For the purposes of this prompt, the prose may be non-fiction or speculative. The haiku, while not needing to be in the 5-7-5 syllabic format, must include a kigo (season word) and present a complement of seemingly divergent images, such that there is a moment of insight. For more on haibun writing, click here.
find me inside this hodgepodge: 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 for dear friends and family.
When the calendar leaf shifts from the last month of a finished year to the first one of a fresh new one, this is when I drown in nostalgia and melancholy. This is when I pause and ponder. This is when I sink into this familiar abyss of the unknown drowning me with questions like what have I done, what will I do next, why did I do this, how should I do this, how can I do this, and more.
As steady as the ebb and flow of the sea, my overthinking overpowers me every January. Perhaps because it is my birth month. Perhaps because it is another clean slate. And how carefully we carry things that are new and shiny, right? But perhaps, this feeling of being lost will be sweeter when the answers are found. This soft petal of fear will bear fruit as my roots sink deeper into this life’s fleeting ground. Perhaps.
Endings breathe restart,
these feet hang high yet again.
A new tough seed cracks.
—
01.07.2019
©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash
—
For dVerse Beginning (again) – Haibun .
earth’s striptease: a haiku
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 .
on Mars and moth
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 go full Apollo 11, check out Apollo in Real Time – it’s amazing and I can’t wait for the Moon landing on Saturday. If you’re not into space exploration, remember that the picture is only the starting point. You take your lines wherever you want.
If you want to join, here are the simple rules:
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Write three lines inspired by the photo prompt.
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Link back to this post.
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Tag your post with 3LineTales (so we can find you in the Reader).
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Read and comment on other TLT participants’ lines.
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Have fun.
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.
