well, we are all caged inside aged standards: a string of landays*

‘Tween legs without hanging, cloning tube,
hands tied inside kingdom of plates, forks, knives, fittingly.

Rugged palms even at birth, first cry
should be the last, plow land, tear not. Masculinity.

Fingernails painted in red welcomes
thin sheets of cloth be stripped, cream breasts bared, unwillingly.

Broad chest cracks in silence, no one wants,
your own side of the story, just pay alimony.

Are we shouting, equality, freedom
deaf, blind of all genders’ clipped wings aching to be free?

03.11.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash
Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
For dVerse Poetics: “Bartender, I’d like to close out my tab-oo”
In Pashto, *”landay (LAND-ee)” means “short, poisonous snake,” likely an allusion to its minimal length and use of sarcasm. Landays (or landai) often criticize traditions and gender roles.
There are few formal properties. Each landay consists of a single, twenty-two syllable couplet. There are nine syllables in the first lines, and thirteen syllables in the second. In Pashto, the poem ends on a “ma” or “na” sound. The lines do not generally rhyme.

thank you winter, for letting the spring in: a haibun

When I was young there was this Koreanovela titled Winter Sonata, a part of a series titled Endless Love. I was nine or maybe 10, innocent and clueless, but that was my first encounter with you— season of snowflakes and magic.

It has been more or less three decades and you remain a dream to me. To watch how your fairy flakes fall ever so slowly, from heaven to the waiting parched earth. How your tiny drops can eventually cover a city’s entire map. How you serve as natural soundproofing, silencing the murmurs of the earth for a few months.

While some links your beauty with gloom and doom (let’s face it, you can also be cruel), but as was written, “What’s essential is invisible to the eye”, we, we mere mortals were not able to witness the kingdom you protect behind your thick coating. We do not know that inside you sleep pregnant seeds and there you nurture them away from any predators. And how unselfishly you melt, little by little, vacating the streets and roads you conquered, knowing it’s time for births, and it’s time for you to go.

Under white blanket,
hide so patient, tender twigs.
Hello, spring sunshine.

02.04.2020
©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
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Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
For dVerse Haibun Monday 2/3/2020: Spring
Let’s put a little spring into our step today, shall we? Let’s spring into action. Or let’s just enjoy that first taste of spring. After all, Punxsutawney Phil predicted an early Spring on Ground Hog’s Day. Yesterday’s temperatures, at least in New York’s backyard, warmed to spring low temperatures.

find me inside this hodgepodge: a haibun

For some reasons, a year ending has never made me reflective. I always feel like my heart is sprinkled with pastel joy from December until the first few days of January. It is the time of rest, no, not really. It is the time of doing and travelling a lot, but not for salary, but for dear friends and family.

When the calendar leaf shifts from the last month of a finished year to the first one of a fresh new one, this is when I drown in nostalgia and melancholy. This is when I pause and ponder. This is when I sink into this familiar abyss of the unknown drowning me with questions like what have I done, what will I do next, why did I do this, how should I do this, how can I do this, and more.

As steady as the ebb and flow of the sea, my overthinking overpowers me every January. Perhaps because it is my birth month. Perhaps because it is another clean slate. And how carefully we carry things that are new and shiny, right? But perhaps, this feeling of being lost will be sweeter when the answers are found. This soft petal of fear will bear fruit as my roots sink deeper into this life’s fleeting ground. Perhaps.

Endings breathe restart,
these feet hang high yet again.
A new tough seed cracks.

01.07.2019
©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
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For dVerse Beginning (again) – Haibun .

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.
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Poems for S: Book Cover Reveal

… my third baby book is here!!!

Mockup for Facebook image_v2

Do you also believe that long-distance love is tough and scary? Do you also believe that relationships, the romantic ones, require so much of bravery?

This book of poetry believes so.

Containing over 100 poems written for several years, this collection features the unsure and the blurry beginnings of a relationship made possible by Instagram. Yes, you read that right. Instagram.

Beyond physical attraction, it was and still is a soul connection between a poet and a musician/photographer parted by mountains and seas.

The poems carry a true story of how the everyday calls between two artists turned from friendly to something more. How it took them both by surprise. How they were both afraid and unsure.

With four chapters, swinging from certain to uncertain, from happy to sad, from loved to hurt, from longing to glad; this book covers the mosaic of feelings all hearts go through when “in love”.

More than the poetic forms and the metaphors used, this book is first and foremost a gift from one heart to another.

From a she to her “he”, wrapped with a prayer for their love to be blessed be.

Pre-order available here: https://amzn.to/2CSrGAU
©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.

blanket and shame (a dizain*)

Still wrapped in blanket of soft innocence,
like a butterfly fresh from its cocoon,
a young breath given too short existence
by evil desire of a maniac goon.
A lifeless, cold shell wimps a wordless croon.

An animal act, perhaps it is not,
for mammals, reptiles, these kingdoms just ought
to kill to survive. But humans, we have
become brainless, salivating, cracked nuts,
drowned by earth’s urges, a shame of Above.

My lines bleed for the one-year-old boy raped and murdered by a drunk man in my motherland, the Philippines. My heart breaks. My soul is burning with rage. Why. Why. Why. What have we become. What have we become.

07.19.2019
©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo by Henry & Co. on Unsplash
For dVerse Poetry Form: Dizain 
Brief History
The *dizain is a 10-line form which – like so many good ones – originated in France. It was popular there in the 15th and 16 Centuries, and has also been used by such famous English poets as John Keats and Philip Sidney.
Basic Structure
The basic rules for the dizain are that it has one stanza consisting of 10 lines, with 10 syllables per line, and the rhyme scheme is ababbccdcd. Do you see how the second half of the stanza sort of mirrors the rhyme scheme of the first? Not using the same rhymes,but reversing the sequence. It’s more obvious if I make a break between sections: ababb ccdcd – though the poem is not usually written with a break.

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.
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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

 

time zones

High-pitched
giggles of sparrows
no longer echo
inside the cave
of my ears

before the kraa kraa
of your crows
disrupt your evening’s
fiction dreams.

Yet what a gift
that despite
our clock’s
different schemes

your early
and my early
daily meet
in between.

10.23.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
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For dVerse Quadrille 67— Early