Soon

Feet floating on
notes of a love song
we call ours,

with blooms of
baby’s breath tuck
in between my
dark hair strands,

each step I make
will lead me towards

the end of my life;
the start of ours.

Take my hand,
it’s now all yours, my love.

08.09.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

Fading Periods

No apologies, no regrets, not a single sorry, from the old mouth of the last man standing from the crew who ended the second world war.

Japan started the conflict, that was how the US closed it— with two exploding periods. Periods that bent the knees of the Land of the Rising Sun. Periods that marked how ending wars could be done.

Fading is the warning of the first nuke’s gravity. There might be more to come, oh, we’ll see. From one bloodshed to another, I wonder when will human lives weigh more than a bloody war.

A fragile new bud
tries to crack leftover snow—
men kill to survive.

08.03.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

Inspired by this article.
For dVerse Haibun Monday — Peace Memorial.

 

Paired or Not

We are made with working pairs. Your right hand got your left. Your left ear got your right. Your right eye got your left. Your left lung got your right.

We work with built-in pairs. A scissor will never be a scissor, it should be scissors even when added with the phrase “a pair”. Trousers or some called jeans will never be a trouser nor a jean, for the right leg needs the left leg, always.

But we are from a single cell. We are run but one mind. We live with a uni-heart. We are made by one God.

In nights like this, when the clock struck past 12 midnight and you have no one but yourself, you will learn best:

with a pair, or without, your home, your only home, is nowhere but inside

you.

 

08.02.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

Fingers and Palms

Thin but brave bones
bending but seldom
or just sometimes breaking.
With muscles built
for exercise— gripping,
typing, or clenching.
The puzzle of fingers
and palms, I thought
need not completing.

Until my right had
felt your left—
oh, this is what
complete means.

07.31.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

In response to dVerse Quadrille 61.

NEW BOOK: Between My Bleeding Lines Extended Edition

I was gone for quite a long time, now I’m back with a big big big news about my second poetry collection: Between My Bleeding Lines Extended Edition!

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From last year’s first edition with 100 poems, this new collection contains over 160 pieces and more are now in the hopeful part of the book, which is the third chapter, Forbearer (one who endures).

Between My Bleeding Lines Extended Edition is also now published in the Philippines via my publisher, Yamada Publishing owned by Kota Yamada.

Interested to order? See the book price and the shipping cost here: goo.gl/forms/hMzkOwVz8YaeImxq1

I’m back with more poems, poets and friends! 🙂

s a n c t u a r y

Clothed pair of soles
dressed in faux leather top
and synthetic rubber pants,

clanking, clanking,
against the cobbled,
sometimes cemented
concrete jungle paths,

dreams to be
bare and naked
against the foliage
of the fallen petals
of Autumn trees,

ready and brave
to be pricked with
the crisp and thin
sun-dried twigs,

for the slave feet of the city
yearns to be the lost queen
of the wild—

the sanctuary
of the soul’s respite.

05.02.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

In response to dVerse Let’s Get Wild!

yours (a zejel)

My written words are now sweeter.
My sword sharper, my soul softer.
Your love made me better, braver.

Aboard the Himalayan air,
you trekked slowly near my heart’s chair,
braving love’s daunting, unmapped lair.
I felt your presence crawl nearer.

With tongue with none but honesty,
you brought not roses, sugary,
instead rhododendrons, spicy.
I smelled your soul’s songs closer.

With your hands, beside the road fire,
I heard my heart’s plea of desire,
“in my soon home you’ll be the sire.”
I’m now yours alone, forever.

03.26.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Shubhodeep Roy

In response to Blogging from A to Z Challenge and NaPoWriMo 2018.
Z is for Zejel.
Zéjel is a romantic Spanish form with Arabic influence related to the Qasida and adopted by the Spanish troubadours of 15th century.
Zéjel are:
  1. syllabic, most often written in 8 syllable lines.
  2. stanzaic, opening with a mono-rhymed triplet followed by any number of quatrains.
  3. rhymed, the rhyme of the opening mudanza establishes a linking rhyme with the end line of the succeeding quatrains. Rhyme scheme, aaa bbba ddda etc

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autumn bliss (a ya-du)

Shovel summer,
fall whispers death.
Warmer days’ done.
Here comes red leaves,
trees with naked sleeves.

Let autumn’s kiss
lull pain’s hiss, and
dismiss your hate.
Bliss is sweeter
for the forgiver.

03.26.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

In response to Blogging from A to Z Challenge and NaPoWriMo 2018.
Y is for Ya-Du.
The Ya-Du or ritú (season) is stanzaic form dedicated to the seasons. The theme should express the emotions the seasons evoke. The form is a 15th century Burmese pattern using a climbing rhyme.  The elements of the Ya-Du are:
  1. L1-L4 tetrasyllabic (4) and L5 may be 5,7, 9, or 11 syllables. 4-4-4-4-(5,7,9, or 11)
  2. stanzaic, written in no more than 3 cinquains.
  3. The form employs a climbing rhyme in which the 4th syllable of L1 rhymes with the 3rd syllable of L2 and the 2nd syllable of L3. L4 and L5 end rhyme.
  4. dedicated to the seasons and the emotions they evoke.
x x x a
x x a x
x a x x

x x x b

x x x x b
or
x x x x x x b etc

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parched (a xiaoshi)

Pregnant clouds crawl
as the voice above growls.
While the parched earth opens
its mouth thirsty for rainfall,
a waiting heart whispers,
“wind, bring him home.”

03.26.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

In response to Blogging from A to Z Challenge and NaPoWriMo 2018.
X is for Xiaoshi.
Xiaoshi, (small poem,shi = poetry / xiao = little, diminutive or small) is a genre of Chinese poetry from the 1920s. It is a fragmented poem with minimal explanation. It teams seemingly unrelated images with little indication of cause and effect. The frame is at the discretion of the poet although in sync with most Chinese poetry, it is common to be written as a quatrain.

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