dead bed

There are babies
inside the basins,
drifting nine feet
above the ground.

Roads, houses
s w a l l o w e d
by the rivers’
s w o l l e n mouths.

A man inside
a mosquito net,
I know, he got no
magic wand.
His tongue
has power, though,
if only he cared

enough

for the baby
inside a basin-bed
for people floating,

floating.

Dead.

11.14.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

My home country, the Philippines, is facing COVID-19 like yours. Aside from this and its impact, my fellow Filipinos have been battered by back-to-back typhoons.

Provinces, cities, houses, lives swallowed by flood, some even as high as 13 feet. Until now, there are people and animals on the roofs, waiting for rescue. If you are able to, any help in whatever form will highly be appreciated. Thank you. 🙏🏼

Please visit this link to know more: https://helptheph.carrd.co/

wishes in the wind

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.

11.03.2020
©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 In need of a happiness project?

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. ❤

in three lines (short poems): out now

Close to seven months now, the pandemic situation has kept me inside a cream-colored, four-cornered room inside the belly of a city with tongues not of my own. Alone.

The first months caught me off guard, I got no printed books to keep me company. Hence I took to subscribing to virtual ones like @scribd .

This gave me an idea to create an ebook with short poems, providing a quick read for hearts looking for comfort, such as mine.

With the help and support of the husband, @shubhodeeproy , I am happy to share with you my third poetry collection, “In Three Lines”.

Unlike the first two, this one is exclusively available as an ebook via the following links:

PDF (Philippines) – https://forms.gle/RksK6AJCHp5y6thZ6
Amazon Kindle (India) – https://amzn.to/2GsINhE  
Amazon Kindle (global) – https://amzn.to/379k2Qd

All support will be highly appreciated. ❤


©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Shubhodeep Roy
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

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.

on decaying days and pumpkin soup

Monsoon rain
welcomes you,
on my side of
the world.

I hope your
crimson hair
isn’t damp.
You can leave
your slippers out.

I made some
pumpkin soup,
well, this lockdown
taught me how
to cook. Perhaps,
aloneness teaches
humans better
than any book.

I saw some photos
of orange lanes,
your touch is
turning leaves
as gold as wild
wheat’s grain.

Look outside,
nothing much
changed in my
tropical space,
yet, I do feel
the slow decay
of days.

No, don’t ask
me how am I.
It’s a question
dreaded even
by birds flying by.
Just tell me if
2020 will be kinder,
before next year’s
crossover.

Just wash our
fears, October,
let this year’s
extended Halloween
be over.

10.01.2020
©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 OpenLinkNight #276

green thumb

BEFORE

voice can be
from the rolling of your
fearless tongue or from
the scribbling of your
shaky fingers. neither
is greater, as long
as they are yours.
yours. yours. from
the ripples of your
chest, their waves
can stir one heart
to move from the
dark west to a
brighter south.
because your
words are power.
you are.

AFTER

voice rolls like a red-
carpet tongue, plants
hope like a green-
thumbed gardener.
neither is greater, as
long as they are yours.
yours. yours. chest
ripples. stirring boats
of breath away from
the midnight west
towards the dawning
south. your words
are power. you are.

09.11.2020
©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 MTB, Write like a dog, edit like a cat…

one of eight mouths

rain, they say, is the
heaven pouring
blessings. when i
was a child, it means
flood, tickling my
chubby ankles, choking
my father’s chest
once. it means
waiting for free
food rations and escaped
shrimps from spilling
ponds. it is a
memorised, annual
struggle. a sweet,
repeating chapter
of our wooden,
dining table (too
small to sit eight
mouths) but was
never empty. not

even once.

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 Come and take a selfie!

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?