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.
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For dVerse MTB, Write like a dog, edit like a cat…

tasting silence: a 100-word story

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Silence has always tasted sweet since I was a young boy. I find bliss in building a world of my own, alone. Now, with only the whirring of her ventilator, my tongue is filled with bitter gourd juice, swimming through the boulder inside my throat.

Her hands, I’ve held since she was 24, feel cold against my wrinkled touch. Her lungs ceased breathing. Her kidneys rested. Her once soft lips, mummed with tubes.

When it is over, said and done, it was a time, and there was never enough of it.

I would give everything just to hear her laugh again.

08.18.2020
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For dVerse Prosery Monday: A Time
Today, the heaven opens for a lovely and quiet soul, my Pishimoni who welcomed me to the family and loved me since day 1. You are loved, Pishimoni. Tomar kotha mone porche.

on borders and tea

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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
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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.”

 

praying nets

waka

mix mud and heavy raindrops,
a murky puddle void of
the skill to mirror even
the slightest silhouette,

pour some more, pour some
more, until it overpours into
a snake-shaped waterway
flowing gently in May,
in a rugged rush on
monsoon days,

either way, on it, lays
the floating wood and
men with paddle arms
away from their thatched
huts they sail, and sail,
and sail, before even the
first breaking of  day,

throwing their nets with
their lean, chocolate arms,
add a whisper, begging
the god of fishes for
a good harvest,

to let this day fill
the chipped, cold plates
waiting back home.

08.12.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
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For dVerse Come sail
The prompt today made me remember the days in my childhood town where the river is within arms reach, where my grandpa was a fisherman among the many men of our town.

missing thumb: a quadrille

brennan-burling-251967

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.
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For dVerse How Does Your Garden Grow? dVerse Quadrille
I sadly have no green thumb, I badly wish I have.

camera shy: a haibun

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Three photos have immortalised the birthday my mind cannot remember but will always be dear to me. The first photo was of me and my Tatay (father) who looks like a young TV actor with his Colgate-commercial-smile and polished moustache. My chubby, teenie tiny fingers were clinging tightly to his shirt, perhaps its instinct to know that someone who will keep me safe will be him. My eyes wide with fear, perhaps I’ve always hated the camera ever since.

The second photo was with my Nanay (mother) whose free-of-wrinkle face clearly wore her youth. She was wearing a loose shirt, her eyes mirroring my uncertainty, a feeling understandable for a woman who birthed a baby at her twenty.

The last one was me and the gifts I’ve received, I stood with the help of a walker as my knees are too weak to support my weight. I cannot remember the toys, the balloons, the cake, the guests, the clothes of that day. But with these photos I know one constant thing, I was loved and I am loved since the beginning.

Mem’ry of the first
birthday fades like rays of May—
only love remains.

08.04.2020
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For dVerse Haibun Monday: Birthday

 

escapees: a tanka*

prisoned in cream-kissed-
walls. outside, wheels re-
tain its daily, restless toil.
pair of wheat feet frozen in
tiled snow, still, free hands’ ink, flows.

05.27.2020
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For dVerse Poetics: Make some room
Felt like my poem yesterday can be apt for this prompt, too! So here’s a roomful of tanka for you!
*The tanka is a thirty-one-syllable poem, traditionally written in a single unbroken line. A form of waka, Japanese song or verse, tanka translates as “short song,” and is better known in its five-line, 5/7/5/7/7 syllable count form.

table of elements and wedding vows

Marriage. Marriage is a pair of destined hands
clap not, cannot, without the other one—
no song needed to taste one’s tears;
no spice to smell one’s burning sun.

Marriage. Marriage is all the sonnets
William Shakespeare (welcomed and
farewelled in Church of the Holy Trinity,
just for your information for marriage
will not make sense, sometimes)
has written, and the tragedies the
Intellectuals have dissected and adored
‘fore the beginning of Gutenberg’s time.

Well. Love. Love can make one mad
and blind and write, usually all at the
same time, until it births its favorite son—
marriage where poems are etched
at the back of their hands, memorised
by heart like the Table of Elements
during your dreaded Chemistry class.

Marriage. Marriage is a pair of destined hands
clap not, cannot, without the other one;
can be clenched fists for a while
tangled fingers most of the time,
until one’s breath is done,
until one’s breath is done.

04.05.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
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For NaPoWriMo 2020: Day Five

if only my blanket can speak

rarely do i dream, or
perhaps remember my
private drama series
playing under the

consciousness i can
not deliberately reach,

though when i was
able to grasp some
bits of pieces of an
already fading mid-
night memory it
will always involve

a plane crash-
ing (with full hollywood
exaggerated effects
of giant smoke and
angry fire) either
wreaking against the
vast thigh of a
meadow or on
poorly-spaced
gossiping roofs,
i have since

googled its meaning
resulting in more
confusion than
peaceful resolution
but at the back
of my honest
thought, i know,
perhaps the plane
is me, my ego, my
pride, my desire

to soar ever so high
wrapped with the
a bitter-tasting dread
of committing a
mistake permanent
and lasting, maybe,

maybe i have always
been afraid of falling

maybe i have always
been afraid of failing
.

04.04.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
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For NaPoWriMo 2020: Day Four

counting poems before and after him

thousand poems
have i written
‘fore fate allowed
me to meet him,

oh, how in hush heart-
beats, low key hums,
dearness draws near
me towards him,

oh, how my shy
muse sings hymns,
so sweetly since
i knew him,

oh, how rhymes
roll off in rivulets,
thousands and more
poems now for him.

01.31.2020
©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
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For dVerse The music of alliteration, assonance, and consonance.
Today I would like you to try using different types of assonance and consonance in any poem of your choice. Try to listen to how it sounds, and see how you can enhance the connection between the letter you use and the meaning of the poem. Maybe you can add the beat of the poem with accentuated alliteration.
Inspired by my book Poems for S.

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