green thumb

BEFORE

voice can be
from the rolling of your
fearless tongue or from
the scribbling of your
shaky fingers. neither
is greater, as long
as they are yours.
yours. yours. from
the ripples of your
chest, their waves
can stir one heart
to move from the
dark west to a
brighter south.
because your
words are power.
you are.

AFTER

voice rolls like a red-
carpet tongue, plants
hope like a green-
thumbed gardener.
neither is greater, as
long as they are yours.
yours. yours. chest
ripples. stirring boats
of breath away from
the midnight west
towards the dawning
south. your words
are power. you are.

09.11.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
For dVerse MTB, Write like a dog, edit like a cat…

missing thumb: a quadrille

brennan-burling-251967

murderer. i am a
murderer of eight.
eight innocent

lives my hands
without green
thumbs have ended

the purple garden
of eight eggplants.
i was 15. since

then i’ve not
tried to get my fingers
dirty, afraid to be
a murderer for the

ninth time.

08.11.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash
Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
For dVerse How Does Your Garden Grow? dVerse Quadrille
I sadly have no green thumb, I badly wish I have.

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
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Catrin Welz-Stein
Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
For NaPoWriMo 2020: Day Two .

army of elements

Naked eyes’re powerless
for they are invisible,
smaller than dust, no less.

Creepy crawlers, void of tiny legs,
bursting from vein to vein
inside a mortal, muscled-keg.

A minuscule army of
Platinum, Fluorine, Arsenic, Boron
haunting for the invading “C”.

With a fatal glow, ‘nother option
is the clear-cut missile of
Cobalt-60 and Nickel-60.

Both weapons attack
with precision after trialled years,
Inside the lab intelligent minds

haunt periodic table for more recruits
in the race against the cursed
maker of crocodile-not tears.

Battles may end six-feet deep
or above, but all are won.

With a sliver of hope,
sunrise remains divine.

01.08.2019
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash
Inspired by the book I finished last night, my first for 2020, Finding Chika: A Little Girl, an Earthquake, and the Making of a Family.
It is the story of a little Haitian girl named Chika diagnosed with a rare brain tumor. What a brave girl she was and still is.

Finding Chika: A Little Girl, an Earthquake, and the Making of a Family

I will be sharing more about this book in my future posts. 🙂
For dVerse Let’s get elemental!
Tonight, let’s get elementary. Let’s get back to the absolute basics of matter.
For Christmas this year, my son received a copy of Periodic Tales by Hugh Aldersley-Williams. It’s a book of stories about the different elements of the periodic table. I thought it might be fun to write some poems inspired by elements, and that’s what I want you to do tonight. You don’t need to have any knowledge of science to do this – we rub up against the elements every day.
When you stop and think about it, you realise there are so many elements surrounding us all the time. Maybe you’ll write about gold – the ultimate treasure? Or carbon, present in charcoal, coal, but also in diamonds? Maybe oxygen? Maybe you’ll fill a balloon with helium and let it go bobbing off; or give me a poem that’s a neon light in a dark night. Or maybe you’ll head off down into the lower layers of the table where the stranger elements like uranium and polonium lurk.

snowdrops and broken hearts: a monorhyme*

Pluck one, and then two,
hold those tears, though true,
“He loves you not.” Chew

perished juice— his rue.
Pluck three, four, five. Phew.
Let him go. Adieu.

Enough of flower’s woo,
your chapter is through.
Spit the seed ‘side you.

Beside your window’s view,
sink yesterday’s blue,
water with hope’s brew.

Wait for spring’s hue
where snowdrops grew.
Pluck not, rebirthed. New…

11.28.2019
©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo by Urban Prah on Unsplash
For dVerse Poetics: Sylvia and Ted.
The challenge is to write a poem in the format and style of either Plath or Hughes. It must be about something that grows or multiplies and is in some way invasive.
I picked Plath’s format: Plath’s lines are very short, with nearly every line consisting of five syllables; Plath’s poem is arguably feminine in tone.
I also used the monorhyme format – which means all lines are rhyming. 🙂

a land i wish is a myth

in sixteen seconds,
bang…

bang, bang, bang, bang.

two young breaths
cold and glass-eyed.

behind’s a pair
of teen-hands.

instead of his
birthday cake,
with a pistol, he
blows his own
mind last.

in sixteen seconds.
another school joins
an exclusive club
no one dreams or wants.

in sixteen seconds
the sky gulps,
to welcome
another batch
of tender buds

brutally picked off
from earth’s

bullet land.

11.15.2019
©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo by  Unsplash
For 2019 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 14 and for dVerse OLN.
My heart breaks:
Two teens are dead after a 16-year-old gunman shot 5 classmates and himself in 16 seconds, cops say

New Book Alert: Poems for S | December 2019

Happiest to share this news to you, my WordPress friends! ❤

 

postal code stamps

Our tongues are dancing muscles
sprinkled with the magic dust of languages,

as if before birth we’re treated
on a buffet of diverse dialects and accents

where we select how our mouths will circle and arch
to utter each twisted word’s lyrical march, but

pause and place your vein-hand
in the middle of your breasts, there,

there is a polyglot organ,
tapping ceaseless da-dum, da-dum,

tasting the kindness in a stranger’s smile,
touching the tendrils of love’s blurry profile.

There is where we learn,

our tongues may be the dancing muscles
sprinkled with the magic dust of languages,

but our hearts are our postal code stamps
proving this big, big world is our residence.

04.19.2019
©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo not mine

For dVerse Open Link Night #241

p r e a m b l e

Softly part my
curtain thick
with innocence
preserved by
conscious choice.

Brick by brick,
please gently
chip, my wall
of fear—

to be charted
by a pair of
searching hands
detached from
my own
wheat arms,

by loose lips
longingly yearning
to take what
has always
been mine,

by unknown,
foreign organ
aching to reach the
so soft cave, I
have guarded all
this time.

With cheeks red,
chest raised,
breaths too short,
skin so warm,
stripped and bare,

“oh, my love,
you’re welcome.”

11.21.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

For dVerse Poetics: Desire and Sexuality in Poetry

 

soon, my love

Faint, fainter, faintest,
goes the winky cars
passing by.

Dark, darker, darkest,
goes the moonless
November sky.

Soft, softer, softest
goes the notes
of lullaby.

Sleepy, sleepier, sleepiest,
goes the tired city
whisp’ring goodbye.

Soon, sooner, soonest,
I’ll be near,
as another day dies.

11.06.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

Written while listening to Sara Bareilles’ City as my heart yearns for my he.
For dVerse Quadrille Wink