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

wish come true

You are asking why I haven’t been writing lately about love, well, it’s because you do not utter a wish every night once you can already hold it with your bare hands. So why I haven’t been writing about love it’s because I already have you. r. c. gonzales – roy | page 138 of

sareureuk

I heard the hushed melting of the last flake of winter on the drying road bathed with the first infant rays of spring, I felt the spinning earth waited a bit, I saw a second lasted more than a minute, when you smiled at me for the first time. r. c. gonzales – roy |

SinceRely

My heart saw you before my eyes How beautiful is it, right? Like nightingale, I heard your song like moon-sent, sweet goodnight. From miles away I felt you long before our nervous hands touch. Tonight listen to my soul’s notes, they are for you, my far love. — ©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.

scared

Feet on the edge of a cliff, hanging, hanging, just one more push Mr. Wind. Yet sweaty hands cling, cling, to unseen twigs, not willing, not willing, to dive, deep, deep, into the pit of love. I have always been brave, blunt, honest, but I cannot leap, else I’ll be a mess. Yes,  I am

Poems for S: Book Cover Reveal

… my third baby book is here!!! Do you also believe that long-distance love is tough and scary? Do you also believe that relationships, the romantic ones, require so much of bravery? This book of poetry believes so. Containing over 100 poems written for several years, this collection features the unsure and the blurry beginnings

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,

words’ way

Perhaps, there is, maybe, a biological malfunction in me, instead of a mouth singing to the tune of bell-voiced hymns the language of my soul speaks not with dust-tongued shrieks but with the dancing lettered-runes under a smiling owl-light moon, tiptoeing from my scarlet muscle-cave flowing, twirling with each brainwave until they reach the tip of

v i r t u o s o

virtuoso, oh no, i am no ace of (many) no’s, i am not numb (yet) against spades of (vicious) no’s, but I’ve my shield of self-belief,  just enough to help me swallow (sharp) eyes menacing, (brute) words piercing, (twisted) life unveiling, on my own. 03.18.2019 ©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved. Photo by Cristina Gottardi on Unsplash

e x c h a n g e g i f t

Words are the gifts I have always wanted for myself. They are my bars of chocolates, my calorie-free slices of cheesecake. My words is the gift I can give to the world. Carefully wrapped in thin papers of prayer — stamped with a wish that they reach the soul who needed them the most even