when rain reigns

while i try
to rein on my
stubborn and elusive
sense of worth,

the rain reigns
against the sun rays
with its freed droplets
of crystals
kissing the waiting,
parched earth.

may i find
the purpose of my
birth, with the petrichor’s
coming mirth.

—

09.14.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo by Liv Bruce on Unsplash

---

In response to Quadrille #40 by whimsygizmo and Rein ’em in! lillian! (i hope i am not too late! :D)

 

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mummed magic

the scarlet leaf
of the almost bare autumn tree,
s  l  o  w  l  y , ever s  l  o  w  l  y ,
f
a
l
l
i
n
g
from its home twig
to its grave earth.

the crystal snowflake
of the heavy, winter cloud
g e n t l y , ever g e n t l y ,
d
e
s
c
e
n
d
i
n
g
from its throne in heaven
to its melting ground.

the brave sprout
of the fresh, spring seed
s o f t l y , ever s o f t l y ,
e
s
c
a
p
i
n
g
its cotyledons’ cave
towards the sky’s bright, open shade.

the soft, infant rays
of the smiling, summer sun
g e n t l y , ever g e n t l y,
b
u
r
s
t
i
n
g
into tiny sparkles of warmth
to kiss the waiting land.

these are earth’s mummed magic,
they need no noise to be majestic.

—

P.S. Is it evident that I fantasize about four seasons too much? 😀

09.06.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo by Matt Lewis on Unsplash

---

In response to Magic by Paul of paul scribbles.

So my poetic pals, your task if you choose to accept it, is to pen a poem using the word MAGIC in some form or write a piece that is quite simply MAGICAL. You know you can.

season singing

traversing the same route five times a week presents me a repeating view again and again and yes, again. the sight of houses, from well-made to thatched huts, occasionally interrupted by massive spaces filled with wild grasses or field of rice stalks, and once with a huge mall. the neighborhood will then be replaced with the passing silhouettes of trees lined prim and proper along the edge of the paved, wide highways. then the homes and factories and taller buildings will wave hello as if to signal the end of the highway and the beginning of the honk-filed and jam-packed city road.

with every single day passing, only the heat of the sun and the cold raindrop dripping are the signals of the Philippines’ two seasons’ ending — wet and dry. (and most of the time, like now, they seem to be fond of overlapping. like summer for the day and thunder and lightning for the evening.) as much as i wish to witness the season’s undressing from winter, spring, summer, and fall, i am only blessed by the summer sun and the sometimes gentle sometimes harsh monsoon showers. 

yet still blessed, yes, for i am among the billions of soul experiencing the warmth of morning sun and the darkness of the velvet evening. to live and to be living, itself is a blessing.

the summer sun and
the monsoon rain take their turns.
my grateful heart sings.

—

09.05.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo by Devil_Jameson RAGE on Unsplash

---

In response to Haibun Monday: Komorebi by Toni of kanzensakura.

I would like you all to write a haibun about how you are affected by season changes, if you do any special activities, what you have done in the past or have planned for the future season between seasons

 

paper dreams

i have a pocketful of folded paper cranes,
inked with agony, worry, fear of my boneless brain.
numb, loss, i’ll wander, maybe after i watch them burn.

—

08.31.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo by Dev Benjamin on Unsplash

---

In response to Sonya of Only 100 Words‘ Three Line Tales Week 83.

If you want to join, here are the simple rules:

• Write three lines inspired by the photo prompt.

• Link back to this post.

• Tag your post with 3LineTales (so we can find you in the Reader).

• Read and comment on other TLT participants’ lines.

• Have fun.

Shoe Shopping

tattered by sand and mud,
kissed by shrapnels and bombs,
we are always ready
to fight, to shot, to combat.

shined until twinkling as stars,
worn to exude power and class,
we are as high as timeless sky,
ready to slay a gal or guy.

made as comfy as a cloud,
displayed as chic, never proud,
we sneak and squeak in right amount,
as we dance, run, twist, and squat.

i am but bare, no thread, no leather,
just muscles and skin,
such fragile matters,
yet i am but your steps’ master
moving forward or back.
soldiers, executives, hippies,
humans, oh, i know their tracks.

whatever cover they clothed me,
expensive, bare, or just an old sack,
as long as they are chasing
their life’s purpose and meaning,
instead of becoming zombies sleepwalking,
that will be more than, oh, more than enough.

—

Inspired by this favorite quote of mine:

“So many people walk around with a meaningless life. They seem half-asleep, even when they’re busy doing things they think are important. This is because they’re chasing the wrong things. The way you get meaning into your life is to devote yourself to loving others, devote yourself to your community around you, and devote yourself to creating something that gives you purpose and meaning.” 
― Mitch Albom, Tuesdays with Morrie

—

08.30.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo by Josh Calabrese on Unsplash

---

In response to Poetics: A Closet Full of Shoes by kim881.

The challenge is to write a poem, of any length or form, about footwear: stilettos, Wellington boots, hobnail boots, sandals, slippers, ballet shoes – it’s up to you, just as long as the poem is new.

Blessed Bliss

bliss blows
blessings, breathes
so sweet mist of
joy to hearts
hurting, like
frozen buds
waiting for
warmth of
spring, coming
with the weightless
strands of
white dandelion
dancing, feel
the rhythm
of my patient
fingers, tap, tap,
tapping, bliss,
come, be
my blessing.

—

08.29.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo by Jamie Street on Unsplash

---

In response to Quadrille #39 by Björn Rudberg (brudberg)

Today it’s time for our returning reason to celebrate short poetry. 44 words including the word bliss. Use it as a noun, or use it as a verb ar as an adjective. Bless me with your bliss.

 

foggy borders

splat!
goes the blood
and some threads
of bleeding muscles
from his back
to the waiting
concrete wall.

bang!
goes the bullet
as cold as the heart
who pulled the trigger
to put the 17-year-old
to his final, breathless
sleep.

no more!
goes some mouths
to condemn the
brutal purging
and killing
and planting of
fired-guns and drugs
to the hands
none can know if
innocent or not.

i now wonder
where is the
foggy border
between justice
and injustice,
instant law and
due process?

maybe the
monsoon shower
will soon wash away
the kiss of blood
on that cold wall,
maybe our minds
are also fogged
by the mist of
hazy judgments
as we silently ask:
“can these killings
save us all?”

—

Some thoughts after another brutal killing, part of the Philippine government’s war on drugs. Sigh. Sigh.

08.23.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo by Neven Krcmarek on Unsplash

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In response to Poetics: Border by Grace

My prompt today is about border, that line separating two political or geographical areas, especially countries, or the outer part or edge. More than the physcial boundaries, there are borders which are invisible, such as an imaginary, social or mental borders. These kind of borders are more challening to overcome, don’t you agree?

soul’s song

i wanna go where the mountains
are high enough to echo my song
song of the soul ceaselessly
gearing up to be strong,
strong enough to not
always try to belong,
belong to the world filled
with hazy right and wrong,
wrong or right, i just want
to live as if life is not long,
long enough to think
my tomorrows are like birdsongs,
birdsongs– sweet yet fleeting, soothing yet fading,
like the echo of my soul’s song.

—

08.16.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

—

Picked India Arie’s India’s Song:

I wanna go where the mountains are high enough to echo my song
I wanna go where the rivers run deep enough to drown my shame
I wanna go where the stars shine bright enough to show me the way
I wanna go where the wind calls my name

---

In response to Poetics: Musical Muse by  Mish

Today for Poetics, I am asking you to choose some lyrics, preferably one line from a favorite song and grow your own poem from it.

autumn spell

in this maze of bleeding leaves
as if the mighty Him spilled red inks
on top of the lush trees and twigs
to signal the yearly seasons’ shift,

find me lurking not
beneath the tall towers of red and yellow,
find me hiding not
inside the house with the whispering cello,

find me sitting not
on the edge of the long, winding road,
find me breathing not
inside the rushing car, suddenly slowed.

one more inhale,
one more exhale,
soul elevates maybe
to heaven or to hell.

well, the view from the top
of this scarlet autumn spell
makes this final moment
a little easier.

—

08.14.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Shubhodeep Roy

what if?

as death is as normal as birth,
one day my ink will meet
its fading the end.
what if this poem is my last?
what if? what if?
what last lines would i want to leave?
what if? what if?
what final rhymes would i want to breathe?
what if? what if?

would i want to write
a heartfelt villanelle
to glorify the God
who made me well,
to thank the imperfect
yet loving parents
who compensated money with
their love and presence?

would i want to write
a throbbing aubade
to the he’s whom
i have loved?
fill every stanza
with bitter farewells
and warm kisses
they have forever missed out?

would i want to leave
a sweet, sweet sonnet
to the one man
who’ll have me last,
stamp every rhyme
and every line
with the promise of meeting again
inside heaven’s confines?

or would i want to leave
a freely flowing free verse,
about a life well lived
in better and in worse,
etch my last words
with gratefulness
and contentment,
for either way, i’m blessed.

what if this poem is my last?
i think i would be smiling if
this poem would be my parting gift
to those who have loved me
and i have loved unconditionally.

if this is the end for me and my poetry,
then i will park my pen,
beside my final lines and rhymes,
and then, rest peacefully.

—

08.02.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

—

sneaked in some time to post this poem after my looong hiatus. the lines:

what if this poem is my last?
what if? what if?
what last lines would i want to leave?
what if? what if?
what final rhymes would i want to breathe?
what if? what if?

are inspired by a poem by Davy D. i have a big event (at work) tomorrow and i dropped by to tell you all guys that I miss WordPress because of you all. as soon work calms a bit, i’ll go back. ❤ please don’t forget me. 🙂 Much love!

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In response to The End paul scribbles.

This evening I want you to think about ‘THE END.’