sparrowed mornings

my palms can hold your hand at night, i wonder how they reached so many miles, combed some bay andthe west sea, with a floater. i am sure. probably. you have ten fingers butfelt like twenty in a piano. you ticklemy toes and make my heart flutterlike a feather from a cheerful sparrow. mornings. i… Continue reading sparrowed mornings

where are the planes

after Alice Walker and Zora Neale Hurston Blue. Perhaps baby blue. The shade you gift a baby boy in a shower that does not involve a drop of water. But I'm talking about the July sky, here, in my corner of earth, is rarely blue. Mostly grey. The difference was the absence of flying tins.… Continue reading where are the planes

can you catch me?

my brain, moresmudge than wrinkled-thinking-machine,eye-to-eye — last week's cold coffee & I — where is the milkin this sugarlessgoodbye. we're lockedbut we're also the key. there is a story withinthese cracks in timid tremble float, afloat.up, up, andaway. — 15.06.2021©2021 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.Photo via Unsplash This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives… Continue reading can you catch me?

Two years taste like

my first dhal on our seven-hour train ride— spices still strangers to my soya-sauced-lips. a firework to my palette yet, you were there. with a camera taking notes of each knot on my fore- head, every twitch of my nose. i knew. i need not to glaze myself in honey to be enough for you.… Continue reading Two years taste like

moon’s eyes: a haibun

A bat flies towards the berry tree. If it has a fruit on its mouth, it's too dark to see. The dinner's curry cooks with cumin, turmeric, kashmiri, with some cinnamon bark and cardamom, too. Afternoon's rain anointed the soil just before the stars woke up. The spiced-breeze eats up the last tinge of petrichor.… Continue reading moon’s eyes: a haibun

praying nets

mix mud and heavy raindrops, a murky puddle void of the skill to mirror even the slightest silhouette, pour some more, pour some more, until it overpours into a snake-shaped waterway flowing gently in May, in a rugged rush on monsoon days, either way, on it, lays the floating wood and men with paddle arms… Continue reading praying nets

camera shy: a haibun

Three photos have immortalised the birthday my mind cannot remember but will always be dear to me. The first photo was of me and my Tatay (father) who looks like a young TV actor with his Colgate-commercial-smile and polished moustache. My chubby, teenie tiny fingers were clinging tightly to his shirt, perhaps its instinct to… Continue reading camera shy: a haibun

honest august

Come in, don’t be afraid, August, our blunt fists won’t bite your innocence, we just want you to please be honest, when can we taste the harvest of our last months’ chaos and mess? See, our nails are filled with dirt digging some seeds of winter hope to plant some spring fruit of faith, our… Continue reading honest august

mer-made

gone are the days of a clear, singing underworld now icebergs are made of forgotten plastics half way, photographed before it fin'lly sinks, sea turtles're choking with once-kissed resin straw have we peeled your rainbow scales with our cruel claws? — 06.24.2020 ©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved. Photo via Unsplash This work is… Continue reading mer-made

come in, June

Come in. I am sorry for the lack of energy, would you like some lukewarm tea? Well, we are tired zombies, avoiding (or wait- ing) for the wind of death, we are suffocated not by the unseen killer but the cruel knee on our throat for centuries, (we chose to close our eyes on) well,… Continue reading come in, June