I write because I read. I read because I write.
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… Continue reading the garden of 17 syllables: a haibun for Basho
if i should have a chosen pet perhaps it will be a little bunny, (i once had one, but she died just after day one choked on a loaf bread my dumb 18-year-old mind foolishly fed it; rest in peace, mogu, i still feel sorry for what i did to you) running around my beige-tiled… Continue reading hopping inside a wonderland
April air reeks of unperfumed killer floating with spring, bobbing as daffodils sing, there goes selfish whims ransacking shelves of kindness, in a bid to survive hunger for toilet paper arrived, common sense of supposed "high- er beings" flushed, hummingbirds, sparrows, laugh at us. — 04.21.2020 ©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved. Photo via… Continue reading spring reeks with laughter of birds
Marriage. Marriage is a pair of destined hands clap not, cannot, without the other one--- no song needed to taste one's tears; no spice to smell one's burning sun. Marriage. Marriage is all the sonnets William Shakespeare (welcomed and farewelled in Church of the Holy Trinity, just for your information for marriage will not make… Continue reading table of elements and wedding vows
rarely do i dream, or perhaps remember my private drama series playing under the consciousness i can not deliberately reach, though when i was able to grasp some bits of pieces of an already fading mid- night memory it will always involve a plane crash- ing (with full hollywood exaggerated effects of giant smoke and… Continue reading if only my blanket can speak
A two-minute quick sprint out of a wooden house with wiggling eight-step stairs ("our" because we live there, but is not really ours at all) and I and my two sisters are out of reach of our mom's arms carrying the fourth young mouth of the family. Under a soft-roast summer noon, bare feet and little… Continue reading little girls with chocolate cake feet
finally, you arrived, please take a seat. you want tea, or cup of coffee, or perhaps a cooling lime? you got fresh 30 days on your spring, pastel sleeves. need not to tell me what you got in store for me and for the fellow beings of this overwhelmed earth, i just want to ask,… Continue reading april, be all but red
A Reading Writer 