praying nets

waka

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
away from their thatched
huts they sail, and sail,
and sail, before even the
first breaking of  day,

throwing their nets with
their lean, chocolate arms,
add a whisper, begging
the god of fishes for
a good harvest,

to let this day fill
the chipped, cold plates
waiting back home.

08.12.2020
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For dVerse Come sail
The prompt today made me remember the days in my childhood town where the river is within arms reach, where my grandpa was a fisherman among the many men of our town.

camera shy: a haibun

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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 know that someone who will keep me safe will be him. My eyes wide with fear, perhaps I’ve always hated the camera ever since.

The second photo was with my Nanay (mother) whose free-of-wrinkle face clearly wore her youth. She was wearing a loose shirt, her eyes mirroring my uncertainty, a feeling understandable for a woman who birthed a baby at her twenty.

The last one was me and the gifts I’ve received, I stood with the help of a walker as my knees are too weak to support my weight. I cannot remember the toys, the balloons, the cake, the guests, the clothes of that day. But with these photos I know one constant thing, I was loved and I am loved since the beginning.

Mem’ry of the first
birthday fades like rays of May—
only love remains.

08.04.2020
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For dVerse Haibun Monday: Birthday

 

honest august

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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 tongues are
white with prayer,
our eyes salted as
blue sea in summer,

our feet chained
as a bruised flyer,
so can you whisper
to September and
her gangs of -ber’s
to make up for
the first half’s blur?

We promise to take
the lessons of this
cruel semester,
perhaps as much
as our mortal minds
can remember.

08.01.2020
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For dVerse Just Sayin’ . . .

mer-made

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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
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For dVerse Poetics: Sounding the Siren

come in, June

brian-patrick-tagalog-Zcl9rMwflmw-unsplash

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,
probably you know
what May did, and
all the months before,
yes, there were
some cherry blossoms
blooming, some
midnights with
crickets singing, but,
our muscle wings
are quite rusting, our
tiled feet itching, this
year is a candle
dying, fading like a
half evening
moon, so June, can you
please bring healing

soon?

06.01.2020
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escapees: a tanka*

prisoned in cream-kissed-
walls. outside, wheels re-
tain its daily, restless toil.
pair of wheat feet frozen in
tiled snow, still, free hands’ ink, flows.

05.27.2020
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For dVerse Poetics: Make some room
Felt like my poem yesterday can be apt for this prompt, too! So here’s a roomful of tanka for you!
*The tanka is a thirty-one-syllable poem, traditionally written in a single unbroken line. A form of waka, Japanese song or verse, tanka translates as “short song,” and is better known in its five-line, 5/7/5/7/7 syllable count form.

husband and wife, lockdown edition: a quadrille

elizabeth-tsung-pYd6_Iw8TpM-unsplash

screeching tires
roared back to life
running away from
fuming wife,

leaving minty
toothpaste uncapped,
garlic burnt
with bitter bite,

lockdown birthing
silly fights.

yet once the stars
start blending the night,

wheels will return
to arms so light,

hush, hush,
let’s not fight.

05.05.2020
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For dVerse Lighten up a bit!

inside a journalist’s mind: a book spine poem

Processed with VSCO with m6 preset

wild embers
die trying
the fourth estate

and still i rise.

04.24.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
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For dVerse Finding poems in bookshelves

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…

 

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