on decaying days and pumpkin soup

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 leaves
as gold as wild
wheat’s grain.

Look outside,
nothing much
changed in my
tropical space,
yet, I do feel
the slow decay
of days.

No, don’t ask
me how am I.
It’s a question
dreaded even
by birds flying by.
Just tell me if
2020 will be kinder,
before next year’s
crossover.

Just wash our
fears, October,
let this year’s
extended Halloween
be over.

10.01.2020
©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 OpenLinkNight #276

again: an aubade

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 – roy | page 77 of Poems for S
Sharing with you some excerpts of my poetry book, Poems for S!
Kindle and paperback available here: https://amzn.to/2CSrGAU .

Mockup for Facebook image_v2

©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

scars and rushing cars: a quadrille

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 by Kieran White on Unsplash
For dVerse’s There’s a Shine to the Season!
My book, Poems for S is now available here: https://amzn.to/2CSrGAU .
Mockup for Facebook image_v2

 

excerpt 4: the vow

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 us.

r. c. gonzales – roy | page 145 of Poems for S
Sharing with you some excerpts of my upcoming book, Poems for S!
Pre-order available here: https://amzn.to/2CSrGAU .

Mockup for Facebook image_v2

©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

the definition of home

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 a silent prayer
that he is off to
a roof where his
family’s love
flows,

until he stops
in an unlit corner of
the almost empty
walkway, tear his precious
box and make his bed
until the next
day.

My heart, a foreigner
on this man’s motherland,
aching to
come back home,
now breaks for him,
living in his country,
but without a house to call
his own.

05.29.2019
©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via my dearest @landlessvillager
For dVerse dVerse Poetics: On Wandering & Observing by anmol(alias HA)
For this Tuesday’s prompt, I would like all of you to wander around for a bit — take an old familiar walk through the sights and smells of your town or city, a remembered journey from when you visited someplace new the last time, a metaphorical stroll through memorized images and pictured memories, a silent observation of one string of thought to its last remnant, et al. and pen down all that you see, feel, touch, know, experience, in its ambit or perhaps its exact opposite. You can think of wandering and observing as an entirely metaphorical construct too.

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 after my own gift

of life

is done.

04.07.2019
©2019 R C. Gonzales | A Reading Writer.
All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

For NaPoWriMo 2019Day 7.
Our prompt for the day (optional, as always) is also inspired by McKibbens, who posted these thoughtson her Twitter account a few months back:

What do you deserve? Name it. All of it. What are you ready to let go of? Name that too. Then name the most gentle gift for yourself. Name the brightest song your body’s ever held. Summon joy like you would a child; call it home. It wanders, yes. But it’s still yours.

Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem of gifts and joy. What would you give yourself, if you could have anything? What would you give someone else?

in seven stanzas

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 ,
gliding on a noon
sky void of fluffy
nor heavy clouds,
yet with Math it’s
actually eating hundreds
of miles for its lunch.

iii

There are two
women – one wearing
a delicate, lilac hijab,
while the other
possessed eyes like
the small cracks
of a for-sale piggy bank –
sitting with a grey-eyed
man, with mane so blond.

iv

Before I was able
to sew the story of
their chit-chat, I
can’t get rid of imagining
their races’ proud flags,

v

like bokeh halos
floating on their head tops,
flying, flying, flying proud.

vi

Perhaps in that table
without kissing nor hearts,

vii

I tasted another flavor
of love.

04.02.2019
©2019 R C. Gonzales | A Reading Writer.
All Rights Reserved.
Photo by Slava Bowman on Unsplash

For NaPoWriMo 2019Day 3.
And now for today’s prompt (optional as always). Today’s prompt is based in a poem by Larry Levis called “The Two Trees.” It is a poem that seems to meander, full of little digressions, odd bits of information, but fundamentally, it is a poem that takes time. It takes its time getting where it’s going, and the action of the poem itself takes place over months. Today, I’d like to challenge you to similarly write something that involves a story or action that unfolds over an appreciable length of time. Perhaps, as you do, you can focus on imagery, or sound, or emotional content (or all three!)

evening snake

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
wheeled machines who promised

to take them home.
Home.

Where is my home?

04.02.2019
©2019 R C. Gonzales | A Reading Writer.
All Rights Reserved.
Photo from Unsplash

For NaPoWriMo 2019: Day 2.
Today’s prompt (optional, as always) is based on this poem by Claire Wahmanholm, which transforms the natural world into an unsettled dream-place. One way it does this is by asking questions – literally. The poem not only contains questions, but ends on a question. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that similarly resists closure by ending on a question, inviting the reader to continue the process of reading (and, in some ways, writing) the poem even after the poem ends.

b o t t o m l e s s (a pantoum)

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 undresses.
Solace’s not a clear map, it’s a wild quest.

Tired feet, be bare, let dusts be your toes guests,
tough, thick skin is formed with sharp thorns’ scratches.
Solace’s not a clear map, it’s a wild quest.
You’re never lost, this earth is your address.

Tough, thick skin is formed with sharp thorns’ scratches—
scars of blood-golds, only you can possess.
Yes, you’re never lost. This earth’s your address.
Sip those sunsets. Time isn’t bottomless.

03.18.2019
©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo by Cristina Gottardi on Unsplash

Inspired by dVerse Poetry–a Piece of Written Art.
My second try on dear Gina’s of Singledust prompt:
*Pantoum
The pantoum is a poetic form derived from the pantun, a Malay verse form: specifically from the pantun berkait, a series of interwoven quatrains and rhyming couplets.
Basic structure
It is similar to a villanelle with repeating lines throughout the poem. It is composed of a series of quatrains; the second and fourth lines of each stanza are repeated as the first.
The pattern continues for any number of stanzas, except for the final stanza, which differs in the repeating pattern.
The first and third lines of the last stanza are the second and fourth of the penultimate; the first line of the poem is the last line of the final stanza, and the third line of the first stanza is the second of the final.
Ideally, the meaning of lines shifts when they are repeated although the words remain exactly the same: this can be done by shifting punctuation, punning, or simply recontextualizing.
A four-stanza pantoum is common (although more may be used), and in the final stanza, lines one and three from the first stanza can be repeated, or new lines can be written.
The basic pantoum form is as follows:
Stanza 1
A
B
C
D
Stanza 2
B
E
D
F
Stanza 3
E
G
F
H
Stanza 4
G
C
H
A

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