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

 

holy flair

Once upon a
blue blood moon
the mighty Kanchenjunga
said hello, too soon.

Over 7,000 feet
above the earth’s
conquering sea,
before the final farewell
of 2018’s only January,

the midnight sky made way
to let the snow-clothed peak
take a silent peek

to two pairs of eyes waiting,
freezing in almost zero air,

yet warm with awe
of God’s hands
oh so holy flair.

—

10.31.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo by me!

---

For dVerse Stock Phrases.

 

calendar leaves

One year ago I dived into another job, left the comfort of the four corners of a white room filled with the smell of fresh news and sweet scent of deadline sweats. With closed fists and shut eyes, I took a leap away from comfort to embrace the unknown new.

Now here we go again.

My soul sifts the autumn’s apple fume slowly succumbing to the mint breeze of winter. My bare feet moving inch per inch towards another cliff too stiff for me to see the bottom cloaked in dead black pitch. My ears can hear the soft crackles of January crackers and a faint love song of June’s giggling sea.

Dry calendar leaves
falling with each dusk and dawn.
Brave breaths ebb and flow.

—

10.30.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

---

For dVerse Haibun Monday – Transitions.

time zones

High-pitched
giggles of sparrows
no longer echo
inside the cave
of my ears

before the kraa kraa
of your crows
disrupt your evening’s
fiction dreams.

Yet what a gift
that despite
our clock’s
different schemes

your early
and my early
daily meet
in between.

—

10.23.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

---

For dVerse Quadrille 67— Early

map of mess

Unfinished coffee,
void of warmth,
aching for last touch.
Oh, the daddy.

Spilled sauces blots
on canvas, wait,
it’s kitchen table top.
Oh, the mommy.

Crumbs of cookies
paved roads for
the hard working ants.
Oh, the eldest.

Traps made of Lego
too tiny, too tough,
barefoot left scathed.
Oh the youngest.

Bedroom scented
with the musk of
used pair of socks.
Oh, the middle child.

This map of mess
proves a house is still
a living,

breathing

home.

—

10.17.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

---

For dVerse Beauty in Ugliness.

b r e a t h e d e a t h

An ache inside the caged loud heart
an itch within each vein of hands

to ink the thumps, restless, so loud
da dum, da dum, da dum, breath found.

Perhaps, like leaves of red autumn
under the full October moon

the muse woke up, and then, looked up,
opened its mouth, and then, fade out,

to kiss the earth, its deepest core,
to die with words, is not dying

at all.

—

10.12.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

---

For dVerse MTB — Iambic Pentameter.

w i n t e r g u m s

Cold against the bare skin
of warm, deep-lined palm,

colder like a December midnight
against the tastebuds of tongue.

Brick-hard on top of a hand—
so fragile and so soft.

Sweet, chewy ‘side the calcium cave
with teeth-made loft.

Perhaps, humans are winter gums—
sugar-coated, guarded, armored
at first glance,

melting, undressing, when inside
a found home with sincere,
summer warmth.

—

08.25.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

---

For dVerse Mindfulness and Poetry.

Here is the gum I held to birth this poem. 🙂

 

l i m b o

Mechanical wings
wheeze up, up, up.
Rubber wheels
tiptoe, touch
clouds, up, up,

away from the safe
harbor of the
steady ground towards
the limbo of
oblivion, sometimes
with carpet of laughing

stars.

In between
galaxies and mortal
land, I’m here to meet

you.

—

08.25.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

---

For dVerse Quadrille.

Damp Box

The box made of
thin tree-meat walls,
closed by a
curtain door,
sealed with
hole-filled, rusted
roof, again
sinks under the
merciless river
overflow, yet

the eight hearts
it has been carrying
will remain afloat—

with warm love,
with fearless faith,
with ceaseless hope.

—

08.14.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

---

For dVerse Quadrille #62.

Please pray for flood victims in Kerala, India and in the Philippines (including me).

Soon

Feet floating on
notes of a love song
we call ours,

with blooms of
baby’s breath tuck
in between my
dark hair strands,

each step I make
will lead me towards

the end of my life;
the start of ours.

Take my hand,
it’s now all yours, my love.

—

08.09.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash