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

 

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Shoe Shopping

tattered by sand and mud,
kissed by shrapnels and bombs,
we are always ready
to fight, to shot, to combat.

shined until twinkling as stars,
worn to exude power and class,
we are as high as timeless sky,
ready to slay a gal or guy.

made as comfy as a cloud,
displayed as chic, never proud,
we sneak and squeak in right amount,
as we dance, run, twist, and squat.

i am but bare, no thread, no leather,
just muscles and skin,
such fragile matters,
yet i am but your steps’ master
moving forward or back.
soldiers, executives, hippies,
humans, oh, i know their tracks.

whatever cover they clothed me,
expensive, bare, or just an old sack,
as long as they are chasing
their life’s purpose and meaning,
instead of becoming zombies sleepwalking,
that will be more than, oh, more than enough.

—

Inspired by this favorite quote of mine:

“So many people walk around with a meaningless life. They seem half-asleep, even when they’re busy doing things they think are important. This is because they’re chasing the wrong things. The way you get meaning into your life is to devote yourself to loving others, devote yourself to your community around you, and devote yourself to creating something that gives you purpose and meaning.” 
― Mitch Albom, Tuesdays with Morrie

—

08.30.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo by Josh Calabrese on Unsplash

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In response to Poetics: A Closet Full of Shoes by kim881.

The challenge is to write a poem, of any length or form, about footwear: stilettos, Wellington boots, hobnail boots, sandals, slippers, ballet shoes – it’s up to you, just as long as the poem is new.

back and forth

sometimes i am a
relentless, untiring,
wave ebbing and
flowing to the
shore, back and
forth, back and
forth.

but today i am
transforming and
evaporating from
the sea to the
sky, yes, i have
surrendered and
turned myself into
a possessive sun.

kindness and
attention are
now my rays that
i won’t let you kiss and
have anymore for
i am tired, tired, tired,

of going back
and forth, back
and forth, without
receiving what i
always give.

love.

—

07.20.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

Confessions, ramblings, and everything in between

Over an hour. That is how long I have been staring at my screen flashing an unfinished article I should finish before the day ends.

Eight tabs. That’s how many articles and resources I have read to be able to start writing and get my mind do what it’s supposed to do.

Numerous words written and deleted. That’s how I have been trying (badly) to write and write and write.

But nothing. My mind is not at it.

Like a boat freely sailing, wandering, on the vastness of the endless sea, my mind seems to be here but nowhere, here but elsewhere. It would be ungrateful to say I feel like a criminal jailed to be stuck in my office chair but that’s how I have been feeling lately.

It took me years to land a job related to my course, Journalism. I have been here for almost three years now and yes, it is fulfilling, tiring, but exciting. But there are days when you want to be as free as a bird. To be a writer tucked under her blanket just reading and writing.

It might be because of age but lately, I have been yearning for a simpler life. A life in a quaint house, by the sea and near the forest where I can wander and wonder. A life without a rushed phase. A life not limited by deadlines. A life not commanded by corporate bosses.

But that kind of life, as simple as it may sound, is too expensive. Expensive because you need money while living a life away from the city and the 9-to-5 job. Because I have responsibilities, and I have a life that isn’t only about me.

It’s been almost two months since I released my debut book, and I am quietly wishing and praying for its success because I dream to be like Lang Leav. Living in New Zealand, writing. But the road to becoming like her seems foggy and bumpy. Am I losing faith? Maybe.

I may not be hungry to make millions for my book, but I am dreaming of living a life as a writer. A creative one. Not someone locked inside a corporate box. But then as the eldest daughter, I got to move. I got to earn. For the family.

How can I pursue my passion and provide for the family? That I have yet to find out. And yes, I am trying to knock doors and windows to turn my dreams into reality.

Like what Ms. Maya Angelou told me again last week, “All great achievements require time.” I need patience and endurance. But most of all faith.

Faith that my time will come. Faith that my book’s time will come. Faith that everything happens for a reason. Faith that no time is wasted. Faith in things I cannot see as of the moment. Faith that He is moving and guiding me.

Easier said than done, I’m trying. Every single day.

For now, let me get back and write the article I need to finish today.

 

Bravest Moment

on the day when her grandchildren will be sitting on her lap asking for the bravest thing she has done, she will be looking back at this moment.

she’s in no danger. no noise. no death-defying acts. but with peaceful tree-whistles, lullaby-like bird-tunes, embrace-like forest air. and her heart and mind who were both dauntless enough to walk out of a life in the concrete jungle and be with the one she prefers, a simpler, slower life.

she will tell them, for only the brave knows living is not owning. living is making each breath counts. with money or without.

—

Word count: 100

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

Photo credit: Pamela Canepa

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For Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) June 06. 2017. 🙂

The Afters

notice how the
verdant blanket
look greener
after a stormy night,

notice how the
sun’s glorious rays
shine extra brighter
after a pitch black night,

notice how your
fragile, fearful heart
beats braver
after losing a fight.

for in failing,
in losing,
we grow.

—

06.06.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

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In response to Quadrille #34 by whimsygizmo.

Today, I want you to poem us up a perfect STORM.

 

 

Alarm

the noisy alarm dings,
like the starting bell of boxing,
another fight,
another day,
begins.

with the routine task
of waking,
eating,
commuting,
working,
eating,
working,
commuting,
eating,
sleeping,
repeat,
repeat,
repeat,

may I not lost
my value,
my worth,
my purpose,
my dreams,

under the haystack
of mundanes
in the world of
routines,

before my life’s
final alarm
rings.

—

I wanna go where the mountains are high enough to echo my song
I wanna go where the rivers run deep enough to drown my shame
I wanna go where the stars shine bright enough to show me the way
I wanna go where the wind calls my name

—

05.31.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

Still in Storm

inside the dark eye of the strong storm inside
filled with swirling and turning and unending
to do’s,
to make,
to finish,
to see,
to hear,
to read,
to write,
my tired eyes,
my tired mind,
my tired heart,
sssssh.

be still.
be still.

—

04.25.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

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In response to dVerse‘s Quadrille #31 by Grace.

Today, write us a postcard poem.

Our word for Quadrille Monday is STILL.  Use it as a noun, adjective, adverb or verb.   You can also combine still with another word like stillness, stillwaters, stillborn, stillrooms, or even standstill.  Our challenge:   please write a poem of precisely 44 words, not including the title, and including a given word.

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).

Attachments

helium-filled balloons
float up, up, away
from the dust
of the waiting
earth,
to kiss the sky’s
welcoming
mirth.

why do we
find it hard
to be like
the cheery balloons–
happy when
we’re being
let go?

maybe because
we prefer attachments
over freedom.

—

03.28.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.

Photo credit: Unsplash

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In response to dVerse‘s Quadrille #29 by whimsygizmo.

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