dawning dreams: a 100-word story

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It starts with the usual scene.

The hibiscus bush void of bloom, filled with sharp twigs like fangs of the past, looking at him from his bedroom window. The door less-an-inch open like a defeated sigh. The bedsheet crumpled, free of human warmth. The duplicate cold key, slouched.

The screech of tires against the gravel road, careful but rushed. The tightening of his chest. The forming of rock inside his throat.

His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream. 

He jolted awake, gasping for some needed oxygen. The dawn willing him, but his voice’s too afraid to call her name, again.

05.13.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
For dVerse Prosery: Maya Angelou

again: an aubade

My clingy heart
has never been fond
of the dawn’s pending fog
everyday sitting
outside our window,

drinking its daily
sunrays-made tea
as it waits
for the official ending
of our last night’s

nectar-sweet tryst.

Another day,
another sun,
I have to wait
for another moon
to inhale your scent

again.

r. c. gonzales – roy | page 77 of Poems for S
Sharing with you some excerpts of my poetry book, Poems for S!
Kindle and paperback available here: https://amzn.to/2CSrGAU .

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©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
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the echoes you left

bed without bodies
pillows without tresses,

doors only for exit
piano void of music,

new bulb void of light,
lenses with no sight,

heart without art,
lifetime without life,

emp—ty

emp—ty

emp—ty

emp—ty

emp—ty

the song of
me after our we.

12.12.2019
©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
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For dVerse Poetics: Echo. . .echo . . .echo
My upcoming book, Poems for S is up for pre-order. See it here: https://amzn.to/2CSrGAU .
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scared

Feet on the edge of a cliff,
hanging, hanging,
just one more push Mr. Wind.

Yet sweaty hands
cling, cling,
to unseen twigs,

not willing,
not willing,
to dive, deep, deep,
into the pit of love.
I have always been

brave, blunt, honest,
but I cannot leap,
else I’ll be a mess.
Yes, 

I am scared, afraid
to fall… for I know you will 

not catch me.

r. c. gonzales – roy | page 13 of Poems for S
Sharing with you some excerpts of my upcoming book, Poems for S!
Pre-order available here: https://amzn.to/2CSrGAU .

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©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
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questions for soles who crave to walk on eggshells: a quadrille

cr-cr-cr-crack
one corner after
another,

tip-tip-toe
carefully,
on top of
crumbling
eggshells.

is it, is it
a triumph
to walk his
crushed carpet
of survival?

w-w-why
do we choose
to create home
inside crevices
so fragile?

is it called saving?
or is it suicidal?

11.19.2019
©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
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For dVerse Quadrille #92: Take a crack at poeming.

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.
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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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bosom (a conachlonn)

Pain swells in the bosom of a song.
Long before the first note of refrain,
restrains fail to cease tears from falling.
Losing you, I wish will be my gain.

03.23.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
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In response to Blogging from A to Z Challenge and NaPoWriMo 2018.
C is for Conachlonn.
The Conachlonn is simply the Irish version of chained verse, examples found at Celtia.
The elements of the Conachlonn are:
  1. written in any number of lines.
  2. syllabic at the poet’s discretion, often 8 or 9 syllable lines
  3. assonant chained rhymed, meaning the vowel sound of the last syllable of the line is repeated at the beginning of the next line.
  4. written with dunadh, the beginning syllable ends the poem.

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butterfly heart

how many days will
it take for a crawling pupa
to hide her legs and
grow her own soft cage
where she will
further evolve into
a winged butterfly?

how much pain will
she survive to transform
from a leaf-beggar to
a fragile air glider who
can freely fly?

how many tiny cells
hidden from the naked eye will
she have to break and birth
to create and be created?

i wonder, likewise
how much loss can
a human heart endure
before one learns to hear
and accept the
goodbyes left unsaid.

11.23.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo Jian Xhin@lyianko

In response to dVerse Poetics: ‘The Heavy Bear Who Goes With Me’.
dverse

 

Our River

the gentle whispers of the trees’ breeze. the tender murmur of river’s flow. the playful tweets of the little birds. these sweet sensual delights are the reasons why we used to visit this river. the river we called ours.

today i clutch unto you, unto your vessel. your vessel made of cold porcelain, a stark contrast to how warm your hands were when you held mine.

slowly opening the lid, feeling what was left of your mortality, i let the salty tears wet my face as i let your ashes be one with the river. the river we called ours.

Note: I wrote this piece with Ed Sheeran’s Supermarket Flowers playing in my ears. Sigh.
Oh, I’m in pieces, it’s tearing me up, but I know
A heart that’s broke is a heart that’s been loved
Word count: 100
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: My dearie Maria of Doodles and Scribbles

For Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) April 11, 2017. 🙂

Velleitie

My fingers will never be enough to count how many times you whispered you love me most. Love me more than anyone in the world. Love me more than anything on earth.

How you want to have a home with white picket fence, where you and me and our four little kids will live with utmost happiness.

But then for ten long years of hearing your words, you’ve never climbed even the first step. Your dreams remain dreams, your words remain noises your tongue uttered.

I guess it’s now time to remove my cloak of hope. Maybe when I’m gone you can make your dreams more than a hope.

©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer

Photo credit: Unsplash, Tumblr

Word prompt: Melinda Kucsera of In Media Res (Thank you, dearest friend!)