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
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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

hopping inside a wonderland

Processed with VSCOcam with a6 preset

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 floor leaving
chocolate-poop drops
as it jumps across,

i’ll probably read it
some of my unfinished lines,
wait for its ears to
stand tall as if it
can hear the yearning
song inside my rhymes.

if i should have a chosen pet
perhaps it will be a little bunny,
but it is too late now to have one
so i’ll cocoon myself with
my trusted company—

scented words and poetry.

04.22.2020
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For dVerse Poetics: Companions

 

spring reeks with laughter of birds

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
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For dVerse Quadrille #102 – Don’t Forget To…

 

table of elements and wedding vows

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 sense, sometimes)
has written, and the tragedies the
Intellectuals have dissected and adored
‘fore the beginning of Gutenberg’s time.

Well. Love. Love can make one mad
and blind and write, usually all at the
same time, until it births its favorite son—
marriage where poems are etched
at the back of their hands, memorised
by heart like the Table of Elements
during your dreaded Chemistry class.

Marriage. Marriage is a pair of destined hands
clap not, cannot, without the other one;
can be clenched fists for a while
tangled fingers most of the time,
until one’s breath is done,
until one’s breath is done.

04.05.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
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For NaPoWriMo 2020: Day Five

if only my blanket can speak

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
angry fire) either
wreaking against the
vast thigh of a
meadow or on
poorly-spaced
gossiping roofs,
i have since

googled its meaning
resulting in more
confusion than
peaceful resolution
but at the back
of my honest
thought, i know,
perhaps the plane
is me, my ego, my
pride, my desire

to soar ever so high
wrapped with the
a bitter-tasting dread
of committing a
mistake permanent
and lasting, maybe,

maybe i have always
been afraid of falling

maybe i have always
been afraid of failing
.

04.04.2020
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For NaPoWriMo 2020: Day Four

little girls with chocolate cake feet

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 town mud
turns into a chocolate cake licking
our tiny toes — mushy and tickling.

Dressed in all white sando and thin
cotton shorts, we dance with the
pair of green blades and the
tender tropic wind, as if we will not

get our asses smacked with
tiny stick from a fallen twig
once our mom, done with
dinner chores, call us back,

“Time to go home.
Time to go home.”

I still wish to have
the soles of my legs free

of leather, or cover,
of whatever the magazines
say it need be,

I am still the little girl
running away, though clumsy.

Well, distance cannot,
will not erase identity.

When can I go home?

04.02.2020
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For NaPoWriMo 2020: Day Two .

april, be all but red

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,
if i may, you might
have heard your
predecessors hands
are tainted in red—

blood, chaos, anger,
fear, love, yes, there is
love—

but please do not
dip your hands with
them, please be blue

of the promising sky
and the arms of
the accepting sea,

or be yellow of the
sun smiling or
of a tropical
pineapple, both
tangy and sweet,

or be pastel pink
of cherry blossoms—
still a dream for me—
of a cotton candy
reminding us
of innocent days,

happy and free.

well, to cut it short,
you can be all the
colours you want
to be, just that, we

are very tired,

April, can you be

better than
March, February, January?

04.01.2020
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For dVerse Seeing Red!