Damp Box

The box made of
thin tree-meat walls,
closed by a
curtain door,
sealed with
hole-filled, rusted
roof, again
sinks under the
merciless river
overflow, yet

the eight hearts
it has been carrying
will remain afloat—

with warm love,
with fearless faith,
with ceaseless hope.

08.14.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

For dVerse Quadrille #62.
Please pray for flood victims in Kerala, India and in the Philippines (including me).

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

Colored Strangers

While I was walking home,
someone called my name.
A genderless body
wearing a sunny smile,
a mist-kissed scent,
and a sunset orange glow.

“Hello, my name is love.
I know I might be hard.
But would you come
with me, tonight?”

Before my surprised tongue
could let a word roll out,
another face came,
wearing the blanket of
a pitch black night,
and the smoke of
a melting rubber
on its upward flight.

“Hey, I am hate.
No, don’t hesitate.
I am an easier
company, mate.”

My unsure feet
step back, one…
and then two…
Inhale and exhale,
my choice is due.

I’d rather be fried
under a sun angry
with love,
than sip
whiskey under
a calm moon
without love.

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


For dVerse Unseen Things.

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.

 

On Continuity

One…
two…
three…

what is there
for you to see?
Will there be
a bubbly bee—
bringer of
positivity,
yet with bite,
oh, so feisty.

Four…
five…
six…

what is there
for you to seek?
Is there a
bullet-size hole
where some light
will somehow leak—
to free the words
you cannot speak?

Seven…
eight…
nine…

Moving forward
is divine; giving up
is a landmine.
Once you step
on it— boom!



All is gone.

Your remnants
will then
go back to one.

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

In response to dVerse MTB: Punctuation and enjambment in poetry.

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

Soundless Confession

Sshhh…
I am confessing.

I am louder when
my mouth is locked,
when my tongue
is still and numb—
a willing prisoner
inside the jail of
sharp, tough teeth
guarded by a pair
of soft, stubborn lips
firm to never let
a single word escape.

Ssshhh…
I am confessing.

My throat and
vocal chord are as
parched as Sahara
in blazing September,
yet I need not
any monsoon rain.
This pen will carry
the voice unheard and hiding.
Never will it dry even when
no one’s listening.

Ssshhh…
I am confessing.
Read. Don’t listen.

08.01.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

In response to dVerse Sounds of Silence.

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.

Lost Lavender

Forgive me, my creator
but I feel you are a traitor,
for painting me with friendly color
and gifting me with healing odor,
but letting me be a protector
of a poisonous aggressor.

In this human court
judging me physically,
my defense is my fragrant grace,
and my pale petals’ serenity,
yet the prosecution argues
I am a symbol of distrust only—
my soft stalks cloaked in fallacy
is the home of fangs so deadly.

In between this irony,
who am I really?
I guess you have to tell me,
your humans are too divided,
I can’t trust them, I’m sorry.

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

Inspiration is the Lavender
Lavender
Serenity, Grace, Calmness,Distrust*
*Primary sentiment for “lavender” is based in the superstition that poisonous asps live under
lavender plants; therefore, “distrust” lavender plants. This is probably the most extreme example of a flower sentiment that is not really associated the actual flower blossom.
In response to dVerse The Language of Flowers