I write because I read. I read because I write.
born in the era of wide-legged pantshis limbs - bamboos - his hands - cloudto touch. his eyes,thin eyes, disappearwhen he smiles. he dances, sings without juke, Elton and Michaelcroon inside his heart.no wonder, no wonderhe is my darlingdad. — 18.06.2021©2021 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.Photo via Unsplash This work is licensed under a Creative Commons… Continue reading darling
Monsoon rain welcomes you, on my side of the world. I hope your crimson hair isn’t damp. You can leave your slippers out. I made some pumpkin soup, well, this lockdown taught me how to cook. Perhaps, aloneness teaches humans better than any book. I saw some photos of orange lanes, your touch is turning… Continue reading on decaying days and pumpkin soup
My clingy heart has never been fond of the dawn’s pending fog everyday sitting outside our window, drinking its daily sunrays-made tea as it waits for the official ending of our last night’s nectar-sweet tryst. Another day, another sun, I have to wait for another moon to inhale your scent again. r. c. gonzales –… Continue reading again: an aubade
December streets twinkling sprinkled earth-based stars, children giggling despite knees' scars, gold bells singing with wooden guitars, sweet smiles brimming over jovial jars, 30,000 flying, I watch for afar, our planet glow- ing 'bove hate's ashen char, hope, faith, joy fill- ing Christmas' delivery car. — 12.17.2019 ©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved. Photo… Continue reading scars and rushing cars: a quadrille
I love how you made me brave. Like a spineless caterpillar you turned me into this brave but still soft butterfly, flying from one milestone to another because I know you always got my back. And I love you for choosing to break out of your shell to choose me. For your bravery to choose… Continue reading excerpt 4: the vow
He walks ahead of me with his old rucksack and a carton box he asked from a store owner politely. A couple, giggling in front of him, stopped laughing to cross the road, perhaps afraid of his dirt-filled skin. I trace his steps under the faint moonglow not to say a shy hello, but to murmur… Continue reading the definition of home
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… Continue reading e x c h a n g e g i f t
i There are two not singing Asian koehls dancing to the tune of April drizzle, playing with brown, and a bit smaller mynahs. ii The plane above looked c r a w l i n g , ever so s l o w l y ,… Continue reading in seven stanzas
Where is my home? Outside, the evening snake is lit, on right it's filled with patches of white, on left it's a strawberry jam of red. Wait, perhaps, it's not a snake, it is but, a curved paved skin of earth, where tiny, tiny, earthlings who think they own the world, are scrambling inside their… Continue reading evening snake
Sip those sunsets, time isn't bottomless. Let that cold wind kiss your deep dark tresses, while your soul sinks with 'nother day's eggress. Sshh, be still, as evening sky undresses. Let that cold wind kiss your deep dark tresses. Tired feet, be bare, let dusts be your toes guests. Shh, be still, as evening sky… Continue reading b o t t o m l e s s (a pantoum)
A Reading Writer 