parched (a xiaoshi)

Pregnant clouds crawl
as the voice above growls.
While the parched earth opens
its mouth thirsty for rainfall,
a waiting heart whispers,
“wind, bring him home.”

—

03.26.2018
©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.

X is for Xiaoshi.

Xiaoshi, (small poem,shi = poetry / xiao = little, diminutive or small) is a genre of Chinese poetry from the 1920s. It is a fragmented poem with minimal explanation. It teams seemingly unrelated images with little indication of cause and effect. The frame is at the discretion of the poet although in sync with most Chinese poetry, it is common to be written as a quatrain.

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maybe mismatch

Maybe it was the noise
of the honking fears inside me,
or maybe it was the clink and clanks
of the battling mind and heart inside you.

Maybe I was ready to be brave,
just in time when you surrendered to be afraid,
and these maybes were too loud
enough to create a strong storm out of

our mismatch love.

—

11.23.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo by Claire Nolan on Unsplash

 

Between My Bleeding Lines’ Readers: Maria of Doodles and Scribbles

I Surrounded Myself With Emptiness

I surround myself with emptiness:
an empty jar that was once
filled with the sweetest jam
an hourglass whose sands
of time were blown by the wind
a light bulb— unable to shine
with its filaments gone
a wine glass that I sleep with
till my waking days

Call this madness or a hint of desperation
Curse this bed of despair from which I lie
But I surround myself with emptiness
So I can simply forget about mine

© 2017 Maria. All Rights Reserved.
Photograph is Reylia Slaby’s latest work entitled, I Surround Myself With Emptiness.

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MEET BETWEEN MY BLEEDING LINES’ BETA-READERS: @mariawenttotown15 of @doodlescribbles | Doodles & Scribbles

My dearie Maria have seen the most raw version of my book and she gave me a lot of helpful insights. As a fellow Filipina, I cannot say enough how amazing she is.
Please do check her out.

—

(As the release of my BETWEEN MY BLEEDING LINES nears (this month!), I would like to feature the amazing writers who guided me (technically and morally) all through out this nine-month journey. I am blessed to have them.)

Tonight’s Shadow

Under the velvet sky glowing with the shadow of the moon, trickled with on and off star sparks, our feet in one rhythm traveled through time– of how we started, of how we loved, and eventually, of how we’ll end.

This night could have been a romantic one, if only goodbye will not be our closing line. But like how the night embraces the coming sun, it’s time to accept our ending has begun.

Scarlet leaves will dry
as winter ends autumn’s cry.
Heart will heal with time.

—

04.04.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

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In response to dVerse‘s Haibun Monday: The Shadow Knows by hayesspencer (Toni).

Elegy of Us

we will soon be nothing
but a fading memory

made of warm forehead kisses
filled with innocence,
tight hand-in-hand walks
oblivious to world’s mess,

comforting hugs on
toughest turns of time,
loud to soft exchanges of
angry then sweet rhymes,

endearing utterance of names
turning them into songs,
pregnant tears shed when for the first time
you wrote me a poem,

full plates of cuisines
we tried together,
promises of discovering
the truth in forever.

looking at your eyes for one last time,
holding your hands for one last time,
stare at my tears and feel my touch,
before our us turned into nothing
but a fading
m

e

m

o

r

y

—

04.03.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

—

In response to Napowrimo Day 3.

 

And now for our (optional) prompt! Today I’d like to challenge you to write an elegy – a poem that mourns or honors someone dead or something gone by. And I’d like to ask you to center the elegy on an unusual fact about the person or thing being mourned.

—

Read the rest of my Napowrimo 2017 poems here!

Unsaid Adieu

The half-opened bedroom door.
The mute clothes on the floor.
I could’ve asked for more.

Filled with the scent you left.
Still reeling with the shivers you sent.

Caged inside this haunted house
named after you,
still feeling the ghost of your
unsaid adieu.

—

02.14.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.

Photo credit: Unsplash

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In response to dVerse‘s Quadrille #26 with the word “ghost” from kim881.

Just write a poem of precisely 44 words, including the word ghost.

Gorgeous Art

Gorgeous Art (Inspired by Between the Lines by Sara Bareilles)

Cruel mind still carries all our shared memories.
Ironically, t’was not able to detect the fallacy
buried between your lying lines.
Thankfully, I have a scarred yet dauntless heart
which made your betrayal a gorgeous art.

—

10.24.2016

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

Photo credit: Unsplash

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In response to November Notes Writing Challenge by my love Sarah Doughty of Heartstring Eulogies and yours truly. ❤

Eternal: An Endecha

Sun’s love for moon’s eternal.
They may not shine together
but they still share the same sky.
I hope we’re like them, but we’ll ne’er be, ever.

—

Photo credit: Unsplash

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In response to OctPoWriMo 2016 by Morgan Dragonwillow‘s Day 31.

—

The Endecha is a ” The Canción triste que encierra un lamento”, (“sad song that locks up a moan”), a 16th century Spanish dirge or song of sorrow.

The Endecha is

• stanzaic, written in any number of quatrains.
• syllabic, written with 7-7-7-11 syllables per line.
• rhymed, rhyme scheme xaxa xbxb etc., x being unrhymed. The rhyme is often consonance only but true rhyme may be used.

Summer Air

The smiling sun and the jovial man-in-blue walking his black dog both fail to break the darkened state I am in after he left me broken and bruised.

So this is what first heartbreak feels like. T’was like a rollercoaster ride which pulls your heart up, up, up until it feels so heavenly and then bam! Dropped. Done. Dead.

I would be willing to take any road to find my way back to him, but then, but then, we’ve never been.

Our story’s like the summer air. You can feel it, but it’s not even there in the first place.

—

Word count: 100

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

Photo credit: Louise of The Storyteller’s Abode

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In response to Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) October 18, 2016.

Rules:

• a flash fiction challenge (stories in 100-175 words or less)
• each story should have a beginning, a middle, and an end
• no serial (continuation) stories
• include a pingback to the challenge post

Thank you for hosting this awesome prompt, Priceless Joy!  

Read more short stories here:

Endings

I have to see her before the day ends.

I have to do it before the sun sets.

I am shaking inside as I slowly twisted the smooth metal door knob.

The smell of disinfectant welcomed me. My wrinkled skin quickly felt the cold and sterile atmosphere of the room.

I can hear nothing but the continuous ‘beep’ of the machine that I cannot really look at, yet.

I gaze around and took my time in perusing the benign prints painted with uplifting colors. No matter how many minutes I look at them, they remain ineffective.

I stared down at the almost-white and completely dustless floor.

My heart is racing. I don’t know if I am ready to take a few more step.

Inhale. Exhale. Deeply. Again.

As I went near, the smell changed. I know I am now near you because the sweet vanilla scent is now within my nose’s reach.

Oh, you smelled that way since I first saw you, 50 years ago.

I stopped at the edge of your bed.

Your mattress looks comfortable. But I know you still prefer to lay on the bed that we shared until that fateful day when your sick brain nerves snatched you from me.

I finally seat on the stainless stool beside you without looking up, yet.

Inhale. Exhale. Again.

I slowly raise by heavy head and finally see your face. You are not as young as before but your look will always be the loveliest in my eyes.

Age has never worn out your beauty, but those tubes somehow distracts me.

I stare at your face as my old hand search for yours.

I hold your always soft but now cold hand. I squeezed it with all my remaining strength wishing that your eyes will open when you feel my warmth.

I looked at you for a second, a minute, an hour. You never moved. You remained still.

I knew that the fiery red sun is now slowly sinking beneath the horizon as the orange and red streaks of light illuminate your lovely but emotionless face.

I kissed your hand and whispered ‘I love you’, for one last time.

I reached for the machine’s button.

The beeps stopped. The sun sets. My hope ends.

—

09.24.2015
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer

Photo credit: Unsplash

Originally written for Blogging University’s WRITING 101 Day 14 Assignment.