Red: A Rondelet

Dripping red blood
from her pale wrist she cut deeply.
Dripping red blood
screams her pain she kept hidden, locked.
She relish the pain silently,
her final seconds end slowly—
dripping red blood.

—

Photo credit: Unsplash

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In response to OctPoWriMo 2016 by Morgan Dragonwillow‘s Day 25.

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The Rondelet is a relatively short poem using the entire opening line as its refrain. It is French in origin, another member of the 13th century Rondeau Family of Forms which is defined by its use of the rentrement.

The Rondelet is:

• a heptastich, a poem in 7 lines.
• in French syllabic. Syllable count per line are 4-8-4-8-8-8-4 In English tends to be iambic in pattern.
• composed with a rentrement, in the Rondelet the entire L1 is repeated as refrain in L3 and L7.
• rhymed. Rhyme scheme interlocks between the refrain AbAabbA.

Unfolded: An Ushnik

Dense, wild forest witnessed the
tale of one unfolded chair,
a tired man with graying hair,
a final note, a gun fired.

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Photo credit: Unsplash

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In response to OctPoWriMo 2016 by Morgan Dragonwillow‘s Day 10.

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Ushnik (God of Wind orignating from the hairs of the body of the almighty Prajāpati) is a stanzaic Vedic meter. The 7th horse pulling the golden chariot of the sun god is named for this meter.

The defining features of the Ushnik are:

• stanziac, any number of quatrains, 4 padas or lines.
• syllabic, lines of 7 syllable each.

Deep, Dark, Dreary

Her heart ripped her apart.
Now it’s my part to take all her wrath.
Sharp-as-a-diamond knife
cuts through me to end her life.

Oh, my pain, is it her gain?
Oh, will this cut, erase her hurt?
Oh, will this wound, do any good?

I froze as her blood flows.
I feel the nerves died as her heart tries to decide.
To beat or not to beat.
To live or not to live.

—

10.07.2015
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer

Photo credit: Enkivillage

Originally written for Blogging University’s WRITING 201 Day 3 Assignment.

Last Choice

I have lived a well-planned life. My mom used to tell me that I have my own decisions, ever since I’m a toddler. I choose what will I wear. I choose what will I eat. I choose anything and everything. Yep. My parents never win.

My student-self is as picky as my toddler-self. I grew old with a few good friends. I grew old with a few but definitely awesome-in-my-eyes wardrobe. I grew old with the hobbies that I truly enjoy. I grew old with a pre-determined path.

I’ll finish a degree of my choice, I’ll work at my dream company and then I’ll get to write my own love story. I’ll get married. I’ll have three kiddos, the eldest should be a boy then a girl and a boy again.

We’ll leave in a humble yet beautiful home with a grand terrace and a modern kitchen. We’ll have two cars, black for my hubby and white for me. We’ll have picnics. We’ll fight but we’ll reconcile. We’ll have our own happily ever after.

Those are just my wishful thinking. Because now, I am left with no choice.

Just last month, after I finally got my dream job, my plans were shattered, destroyed, wrecked, crushed, into tiny little pieces I can’t even recognize.

I have a big ‘C’. Stage four. Hopeless case. That I know.

No words of encouragement can make me believe that I’ll get better. Sorry, I’m not dumb.

I am left with nothing but this sickness that I have never ever planned to have.

My mind is quick, though. I still have one last option left.

Yes, cancer have destroyed everything that I have planned for. And it is destroying me, too, slowly but surely. But, I won’t let it win.

I’ll choose when will I die.

And that chosen date… is now.

—

11.04.2015
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer

Photo credit: mascontext

Originally written for Blogging University’s WRITING 101 Day 03 Assignment.

The Plan

I looked at the sky painted in pretty purple and pink.
I counted the building’s floors, trying hard not to blink and think.
Calm down, jumping is fun and surely death will swiftly come.

—

©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.

Photo credit: Steven Wei

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In response to Sonya of Only 100 Words‘ Three Line Tales Week Thirty-Two.

If you want to join, here are the simple rules:

• Write three lines inspired by the photo prompt.
• Link back to this post.
• Tag your post with 3LineTales (so we can find you in the Reader).
• Read and comment on other TLT participants’ lines.
• Have fun.

Am I Gone?

Is there somebody
who’ll be willing to save
my soul, my heart, me.

They say I
only feel
the love I like,
they don’t know I’m
slowly fading
dying, drifting away.

—

Inspired by City Lights by Sara Bareilles.

04.08.2016
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer

Photo credit: Unsplash

Oblivion

Oblivion: An Object Poem*

flickering sun,
whispering shore,
shells lay silent
in ocean-made floor,

humanless space
no one’s in race
aside from the footprints
of a sunken soul towards

an aqua oblivion.

—

©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.

Photo credit: Unsplash.com

Word Inspiration: Sarah Doughty of Heartstring Eulogies (Thank you, Sarah!)

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*The Dinggedicht or Object Poem is a things poem.This is a genre of poetry in which communication of mood or thought is made through acute observation of things and symbolic concentration. It was introduced in the early 1900s by Austrian poet, Rainer Maria Rilke while studying impressionist paintings. It is closely connected to the imagist movement of the same time. It appears the difference may be in the subject of the observation. The dinggedicht appears to be more likely to observe man-made articles while the imagist tends to observe more natural surroundings.

The Dinggedicht is:

• framed at the discretion of the poet.
• formed by acute observations of concrete images in the world around, expressing symbolically an event, social condition, mood or idea.

 

WRITING 201: Deep, Dark, Dreary

Her heart ripped her apart. Now it’s my part to take all her wrath. Sharp as diamond knife cuts through me to end her life.

Oh, my pain, is it her gain? Oh, will this cut, erase her hurt? Oh, will this wound, do any good?

I froze as her blood flows. I feel the nerves died as her heart tries to decide. To beat or not to beat. To live or not to live.

©2015 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.

Photo credit: Enkivillage

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In response to Writing 201 Day 3 assignment:

Day 3: Skin, Prose Poem, Internal Rhyme

Our skin often announces (correctly or not) our age and ethnicity, tells stories of injuries, operations, and accidents, and conveys to our brain everything from the pain of a slap to the warmth of a hug.

Skins aren’t only a human thing: they protect animals, fruit, cheese, and more. For today’s poem, choose whatever meaning of “skin” speaks to you the most.

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I never thought that I can tell a fictional story through poetry. Not until I have read some awesome poems from some of the great poets from Writing 201: Poetry class.

So inspired by your very well-written posts, I humbly present this another FIRST prose poem from yours truly.

Please feel free to give unbiased and truly honest feedbacks.

As a newbie I will surely appreciate it.

~