the definition of home

He walks ahead of me
with his old rucksack
and a carton box
he asked from
a store owner
politely.

A couple, giggling in front
of him, stopped laughing
to cross the road, perhaps
afraid of his dirt-filled
skin.

I trace his steps
under the faint moonglow
not to say a shy hello,
but to murmur a silent prayer
that he is off to
a roof where his
family’s love
flows,

until he stops
in an unlit corner of
the almost empty
walkway, tear his precious
box and make his bed
until the next
day.

My heart, a foreigner
on this man’s motherland,
aching to
come back home,
now breaks for him,
living in his country,
but without a house to call
his own.

05.29.2019
©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via my dearest @landlessvillager
For dVerse dVerse Poetics: On Wandering & Observing by anmol(alias HA)
For this Tuesday’s prompt, I would like all of you to wander around for a bit — take an old familiar walk through the sights and smells of your town or city, a remembered journey from when you visited someplace new the last time, a metaphorical stroll through memorized images and pictured memories, a silent observation of one string of thought to its last remnant, et al. and pen down all that you see, feel, touch, know, experience, in its ambit or perhaps its exact opposite. You can think of wandering and observing as an entirely metaphorical construct too.

fading murmurs (a villanelle)

Soft murmurs say the end is near,
this earth will crumble, disappear.
Will you let your story end here?

Mouths gurgling aged, frozen beer,
choosing to leave peace’s hemisphere.
Soft murmurs say the end is near,

tired earth sinks under cloud of fear,
birds choke with vows so insincere,
will you let your story end here?

Even spring delays its annual cheer,
while fragile buds still persevere.
Soft murmurs say the end is near,

more hands now filled with bloodsmear.
Helpless in this cruel atmosphere,
will you let your story end here?

No, you cannot save all humans, dear,
but you can be: change’s pioneer.
Soft murmurs say the end is near,
please don’t let your story end here.

04.12.2019
©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

Inspired by dVerse Toolkit: Rhymes and Slant Rhymes

evening snake

Where is my home?
Outside, the evening snake is lit,

on right it’s filled with patches of white,
on left it’s a strawberry jam of red.

Wait, perhaps, it’s not a snake,
it is but, a curved paved skin of earth,

where tiny, tiny, earthlings who
think they own the world,

are scrambling inside their
wheeled machines who promised

to take them home.
Home.

Where is my home?

04.02.2019
©2019 R C. Gonzales | A Reading Writer.
All Rights Reserved.
Photo from Unsplash

For NaPoWriMo 2019: Day 2.
Today’s prompt (optional, as always) is based on this poem by Claire Wahmanholm, which transforms the natural world into an unsettled dream-place. One way it does this is by asking questions – literally. The poem not only contains questions, but ends on a question. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that similarly resists closure by ending on a question, inviting the reader to continue the process of reading (and, in some ways, writing) the poem even after the poem ends.

last leaf

cheers for choked up tears,
cries without list’ning ears.

cheers for wistful dreams
caught or lost in raging streams.

cheers for days of cavalier
where lone strength perseveres,

cheers for named fears
fin’lly found courage sears,

cheers for ‘nother year,
lost hope grows, reappears.

12.04.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

For dVerse Quadrille #70: Poems of Good Cheer

g o l d s m i t h ( a haibun )

Whenever I look back, I see the zigzag road of twists and turns, of ups and downs, my once proud heart has been through. I was a decorated student. My dad won’t walk with me in graduation ceremonies without a medal. His standard has been my fire. To excel. To be the best. To aim higher.

Whenever I look back, I realize those golden necklaces did nothing but bloat my ego and tire my soul. After college, they became more like a baggage than an honour. I was a Cum Laude (with honors) who can’t land a job for almost a year. A bright student who can’t pass her (many) final interviews.

Whenever I look back, I remember how His hands so holy carefully crack my pride and douse my smoke of arrogance. I remember the pain as my narcissistic temple crumble. I remember how with bowed neck, medals removed, feet blistered, heart surrendered, I learned His goodness and grace as I waited for Him to transform me into a humble, pure gem.

Calloused rock battered,
crushed, melted with brutal flame.
Gold birthed in waiting.

11.27.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

For dVerse Haibun Monday: Waiting

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

For dVerse Haibun Monday – Transitions.

map of mess

Unfinished coffee,
void of warmth,
aching for last touch.
Oh, the daddy.

Spilled sauces blots
on canvas, wait,
it’s kitchen table top.
Oh, the mommy.

Crumbs of cookies
paved roads for
the hard working ants.
Oh, the eldest.

Traps made of Lego
too tiny, too tough,
barefoot left scathed.
Oh the youngest.

Bedroom scented
with the musk of
used pair of socks.
Oh, the middle child.

This map of mess
proves a house is still
a living,

breathing

home.

10.17.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

For dVerse Beauty in Ugliness.

w i n t e r g u m s

Cold against the bare skin
of warm, deep-lined palm,

colder like a December midnight
against the tastebuds of tongue.

Brick-hard on top of a hand—
so fragile and so soft.

Sweet, chewy ‘side the calcium cave
with teeth-made loft.

Perhaps, humans are winter gums—
sugar-coated, guarded, armored
at first glance,

melting, undressing, when inside
a found home with sincere,
summer warmth.

08.25.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

For dVerse Mindfulness and Poetry.
Here is the gum I held to birth this poem. 🙂

2018-09-26 12.51.43 1.jpg

 

fogged up

photo-20180910162502118

While the roof sings to the tune of the monsoon keys, the leaves outside dance with the storm’s cold breeze, with a warm, fresh cup of coffee, my eyes stare blankly at the road void of wheels and feet— empty— wishing I can say the same with my mind.

The antonym of empty is full yet my thoughts are spilling and brimming a gusty storm of fear, uncertainty.

Today, a rejection letter opened the can of insecurity I thought I have kept locked tightly.

Perhaps, I’ll let the fog sits comfortably on the glass window, and inside my troubled mind.

Word count: 100
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: wildverbs

For FFfAW 182nd by PJ! 😊

On Continuity

One…
two…
three…

what is there
for you to see?
Will there be
a bubbly bee—
bringer of
positivity,
yet with bite,
oh, so feisty.

Four…
five…
six…

what is there
for you to seek?
Is there a
bullet-size hole
where some light
will somehow leak—
to free the words
you cannot speak?

Seven…
eight…
nine…

Moving forward
is divine; giving up
is a landmine.
Once you step
on it— boom!



All is gone.

Your remnants
will then
go back to one.

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

In response to dVerse MTB: Punctuation and enjambment in poetry.