Piet Mondrian, ‘Broadway Boogie Woogie, 1942-43, moma.org More than a year I have been living inside this box with no divisions. Cream borders keep me company without judging my daily dancing alone and my full-hearted concerts on my own. Identical squared-rooms from my right and left stood the same size as mine. The closest leftContinue reading “on aliens and cream borders: a haibun”
Tag Archives: poetry prompts
inside a journalist’s mind: a book spine poem
wild embers die trying the fourth estate and still i rise. — 04.24.2020 ©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved. Photo by me This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. — For dVerse Finding poems in bookshelves
april, be all but red
finally, you arrived, please take a seat. you want tea, or cup of coffee, or perhaps a cooling lime? you got fresh 30 days on your spring, pastel sleeves. need not to tell me what you got in store for me and for the fellow beings of this overwhelmed earth, i just want to ask,Continue reading “april, be all but red”
earth’s striptease: a haiku
asphalt road in white, absent leaves, abandoned twigs, fresh year undresses. — 12.16.2019 ©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved. Photo via Unsplash — For Frank’s #Haikai Challenge #117 (12/14/19): Midwinter (mafuyu)/Midsummer (manastu) #haiku #senryu #haibun #tanka #haiga #renga My upcoming book, Poems for S is up for pre-order. See it here: https://amzn.to/2CSrGAU .
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 murmurContinue reading “the definition of home”
words’ way
Perhaps, there is, maybe, a biological malfunction in me, instead of a mouth singing to the tune of bell-voiced hymns the language of my soul speaks not with dust-tongued shrieks but with the dancing lettered-runes under a smiling owl-light moon, tiptoeing from my scarlet muscle-cave flowing, twirling with each brainwave until they reach the tip ofContinue reading “words’ way”
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 evenContinue reading “e x c h a n g e g i f t”
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 ,Continue reading “in seven stanzas”
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 theirContinue reading “evening snake”
spell poem with an I
I the poet, is me the poem. With lilting rhymes marking the thumps of this, this, this, travelling heart. With floating rhythms concocting mem’ries– faded and unseen– by this, this, this, restless mind. With idioms and similes, hiding the evidences of familiar melancholy, and glee. With verses sweet oh, so, sweet, as honey or stingingContinue reading “spell poem with an I”
