i wish i’ve puppy-paws
to dig through the muck
of this year.
i wish i’ve puppy-eyes
to bend my
Master’s will.
i wish i’ve a puppy-nose
to smell happiness
from a mile.
i wish i need not
to wish for a real,
real smile.
—
wishes in the wind
Tag: poetry prompts
hell’s window
there is a painting
outside my window,
hell magneting
the day sun’s glow.
stain of last night
rests on my pillow—
my unraveling
with moonlight’s bow.
feels a few feet from
my reach, the sky,
if only dusk can
give me wings to fly.
—
10.20.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
—
For dVerse Quadrille #114 – Poetical Magnetism
Finally, a quadrille after a looong time. ❤
cheese moon
if moon is made of cheese
i will call it mine,
every night, i’ll sink my teeth
to its gooey-divine.
if moon is made of cheese
i’ll swim in pools of wine,
to drown the emptiness
of our mattressed-shrine.
if moon is made of cheese
i’ll drink its yellow shine,
to cheer the longing of
my autumn, drooping spine.
if moon is made of cheese
i will call it mine,
for you are too far away
tonight, my darling sun.
—
10.09.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
—
For dVerse MTB – Lists that Google give us.
It has been almost a month since I did dVerse. Happy to be able to write again.
wait on wheat
ebb and flow goes
the salty, blue sea,
how many seashells has
it robbed from thee?
may they be conch filled
with your childhood dreams,
or the prayers of your
aged-mind’s streams,
may they be shell-hearts
you’ve always long to hold,
too sharp to touch,
too tough to mold,
or perhaps a silent wish
your tongue not dared say,
with dark whispers saying
“it’s far as night and day”.
but ebb and flow goes
the salty, blue sea,
the waves will form and
foam to surprise thee.
in this life, i’ve learned,
what’s meant to be yours
will always find its way back
to your waiting, wheat shores.
sit by the sand,
sip some warm tea,
remember. this waiting
will shape who you’ll be.
—
08.26.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
—
For dVerse Poetics I am hosting today: Poetics: Waiting on Wheat
steps to stay sane: a quadrille
fingers bumbling on
blank spaces of both
the web and the tree’s skin.
grabbing yellows from
bumblebees to paint
sunsets where freedom wins.
stirring orange from
dawn to make a cup
of giggling cinnamon.
stealing sweetness
from apple’s bum—
to have some sanity won.
—
08.25.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
—
For dVerse Quadrille #110: Shall we bum around a bit?
on borders and tea
brown, a burnt one, is the colour
of this table with edges as perfect
as the borders of some nations
with OCD in geometry, atop there are
tea, two types, the calming chamomile
i take during those days of the month
because it helps relieve the cruel
clenching of my ovary, and there is
green tea to cheer up my gut—
digest, digest, digest, faster,
faster, faster. i remember, my feet
as pink as a newborn mouse, a sign
of its tiredness carrying the excess
number on the weighing scale.
since fourth grade. i learned
that fat and beautiful is never
used in one sentence.
i think i need a cup of chamomile now.
—
08.14.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
—
For dVerse MTB: Stream of Consciousness Writing
Briefly: In stream-of-consciousness writing, the poet or novelist turns to the flow of ideas, observations and emotions that invade our consciousness, many times hovering just below the surface. Novelist Virginia Woolf described this process as “an incessant shower of innumerable atoms.”
missing thumb: a quadrille
murderer. i am a
murderer of eight.
eight innocent
lives my hands
without green
thumbs have ended
the purple garden
of eight eggplants.
i was 15. since
then i’ve not
tried to get my fingers
dirty, afraid to be
a murderer for the
ninth time.
—
08.11.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
—
For dVerse How Does Your Garden Grow? dVerse Quadrille
I sadly have no green thumb, I badly wish I have.
mer-made
gone
are the days of a
clear, singing underworld
now
icebergs are made
of forgotten plastics
half
way, photographed
before it fin’lly sinks,
sea
turtles’re choking with
once-kissed resin straw
have
we peeled your rainbow
scales with our cruel claws?
—
06.24.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
—
For dVerse Poetics: Sounding the Siren
our shining moment: a haibun
A few days before this moment, online weather forecast reported not just rainfall but a thunderstorm. More than half of June was eaten by the summer sun, it should not be surprising if the Philippines’ monsoon is here to take its part of the pie. Still, palm to palm, my love and I send whispers every night before this day, asking for some sunshine.
I was not able to sleep that night, not because of nerves but because the camera crew and the makeup team have started to arrive as early as 2 o’clock in the morning. With surprise sighs, I watched the queen burning ball leaving its slumber, at 6 o’clock it has reached its full glory.
As my feet walk on the sand-aisle lined with baby’s breaths and asters, there were summer birds singing, some gentle waves crashing, but my favourite thing was his eyes, his Indian eyes, wet but smiling while waiting for me to reach him. I thank God for him, for this moment free of thunder and lightning.
Two lips utter vows
with glittered sea as witness—
tall, palm trees giggle.
—
06.23.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
—
For dVerse Traditional writing – on a shining topic!
on aliens and cream borders: a haibun
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 left one is usually abandoned, an Airbnb available online. The room directly on my right has been occupied by another breath just a couple of weeks ago. We share the same rightful owner, but we remain nameless faces, after coming across each other once.
Wide glass window panes
taste the same April sky’s rage,
walls cage alien guests.
—
