I write because I read. I read because I write.
I slept on the first morning and woke up on the 27th day. Time flies seems like an overused line. But how else could I say the passing of September? The plants I tried to rear last year are now vitamins on the dried potted soil. Death is silent. Usually.Autumn is a season I have… Continue reading September of the tropics
my sweet little muse has beenasleep on a cornerdressed in specks of dust. unsure if she's down from glove punches or Hawaiian punch. i don't mixdrinks with ink. call me boringall you want. justwake my darling,fermentingmuse up. — 09.20.2022©2022 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.Photo by Diane Picchiottino on UnsplashThis work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.… Continue reading writing on writer’s block
"For how can I be sure I shall see again the world on the first of May." My window was a painted sunset, in floating strokes of purple, orange, and raspberry's blood. I played a song about roses and taste of hope, my hips swaying free of audience, but mindful of the noodles not to… Continue reading plot twist: a 100-word story
Dearestthe Philippines,I have a confession:in as much as my thumb aches toshade thename of the presidentmy bones believe for, mypassport is held in a foreign countrymy wingsclipped, face first, ona faraway soil. My tongue, bitten by the bile taste ofregret.I am alone here, curledin anticipation,choked in worry, even honeytastes bland.My nightsare prayers inthe dark. May… Continue reading prayer for roses
sold on a morningMay to him whosehands the clock hascolored gray, for agrave under a bowedoak tree where lieshis ring's eternalpair. — 05.04.2022©2022 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.Photo by Daniil Silantev on UnsplashThis work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. For dVerse: dVerse – Poetics – Small Change or Big Bucks
rope. there is no rope nor a glassplatformnor a hand orthin twig to hold me up.my feet dang-lingin this period of forced pause.static seconds delayeven the wingsof a soaring eagle.someone press the playbuttonplease. — 05.05.2022©2022 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.Photo by Daniil Silantev on UnsplashThis work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. For dVerse: Quadrille… Continue reading mid-air: a quadrille
When I was a child, our rusted roof is usually dotted with sparrows looking for leftover rice. Hop. Hop. Hopping every morning. Singing to the tune of my mother's waking up pots. We are pardoned from the persimmon leaves of fall. The spooky skeletons of winter. However, our pockets are filled with flood that knocks,… Continue reading sparrow songs: a haibun
Order here Friends and fellow poets, I am excited to share that my new e-book will be launching in less than 24 hours and I really hope you can get a copy. 🙂 It's available worldwide on Amazon.com - LINK and it is FREE for Kindle Unlimited subscribers. About Between My Bleeding Lines Extended Edition… Continue reading New e-book release: Between My Bleeding Lines Extended Edition
Afternoon sky, here, wears a cordial blue,a few white clouds soft glide 'bove gentle air.Even plane passengers can't smell the stewof far flung blood and sweat in missiles' lair.It is quite weird to seat and brush my hairwhen someone's head, afar, turns red in flame.If I sip my coffee, do I not carefor lives disturbed… Continue reading sunflowers aflame: a decuain*
after Caroll Crush March sun spills likea runny yolk in betweendry twigs of tall oaks. The foliaged groundwakes up, feet free of slippers crack crisp leaves with wormsbeneath. Above, early birds sing a tune only they can understand as ifhushing two melting dark-candy eyes. — 03.09.2022©2022 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.Photo by Maarten Deckers on… Continue reading komorebi*
A Reading Writer 