song soup

take that cup, the
china one, dusting
inside the unlit
cupboard. pour

some notes of
G and D, let
your whisking
fingers swirl,

and swirl,

in the key of
C. see how
the dancing
strings strum this
stew of melody.
now let’s

sprinkle, sprinkle,

the lettered
honey dripping
from the flower
inside your
chest, rest

not, rest not,

those inked
fingers, let not
this batter
end up a mess.

patience, more

patience, stir,
stir and stir,
until this mixture
of tune and
rune form your
tired soul’s
much needed

soup of song.

12.04.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

For dVerse Poetics: Secret Ingredient 

g o l d s m i t h ( a haibun )

Whenever I look back, I see the zigzag road of twists and turns, of ups and downs, my once proud heart has been through. I was a decorated student. My dad won’t walk with me in graduation ceremonies without a medal. His standard has been my fire. To excel. To be the best. To aim higher.

Whenever I look back, I realize those golden necklaces did nothing but bloat my ego and tire my soul. After college, they became more like a baggage than an honour. I was a Cum Laude (with honors) who can’t land a job for almost a year. A bright student who can’t pass her (many) final interviews.

Whenever I look back, I remember how His hands so holy carefully crack my pride and douse my smoke of arrogance. I remember the pain as my narcissistic temple crumble. I remember how with bowed neck, medals removed, feet blistered, heart surrendered, I learned His goodness and grace as I waited for Him to transform me into a humble, pure gem.

Calloused rock battered,
crushed, melted with brutal flame.
Gold birthed in waiting.

11.27.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

For dVerse Haibun Monday: Waiting

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

 

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.

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. 🙂

2018-09-26 12.51.43 1.jpg

 

Paired or Not

We are made with working pairs. Your right hand got your left. Your left ear got your right. Your right eye got your left. Your left lung got your right.

We work with built-in pairs. A scissor will never be a scissor, it should be scissors even when added with the phrase “a pair”. Trousers or some called jeans will never be a trouser nor a jean, for the right leg needs the left leg, always.

But we are from a single cell. We are run but one mind. We live with a uni-heart. We are made by one God.

In nights like this, when the clock struck past 12 midnight and you have no one but yourself, you will learn best:

with a pair, or without, your home, your only home, is nowhere but inside

you.

 

08.02.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash