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
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
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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.

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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Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
For dVerse How Does Your Garden Grow? dVerse Quadrille
I sadly have no green thumb, I badly wish I have.

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
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
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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.

love in the time of coronavirus

Our love in the time
of coronavirus is
thousands of miles away,

my tourist visa got
cancelled before it sees
the light of another Indian day,

his feet are planted,
prohibited to fly to Malaysia’s sky,
because it is safer that way,

in the end, perhaps, nation
gates are needed to be locked
to keep the virus at bay,

regardless of the many
hearts sleeping on empty beds,
dreaming on sadness’ sleigh,

regardless of some pair of hands
burdened but enduring,
without home-arms to rest and stay,

like our love in the time
of coronavirus, parted
thousands of miles away,

but we are both here
filled with more love,
blessed on our own way,

at the back of our
surrendered hands—
a constant prayer,

to be inside a
single roof together,
one day. One day.

Note: Title inspired by the classic novel Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
03.2020
©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.

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.

Mockup for Facebook image_v2

sareureuk

I heard the
hushed melting
of the last flake
of winter on the
drying road bathed
with the first infant
rays of spring,

I felt the
spinning earth
waited a bit,

I saw a
second lasted
more than a minute,

when you smiled at me
for the first time.

r. c. gonzales – roy | page 31 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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Submitted for dVerse OpenLinkNight #257

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.
Photo via Unsplash
For dVerse Quadrille #92: Take a crack at poeming.

t w o w o r l d s

Find me in silent
corners where the
horizon’s mouth
swallows another
burning ball,
licks the cool sky
in pastel blush
in front of all.

Find me in soft,
tender nighttime
blanket, sipping a
the third cup of my
daily coffee haul.

Find me inside the
chosen shell of
solitude where
thoughts are
slowly eaten,
gingerly chewed.

Find me on the lap
of whistling rhymes
and twirling rhythms,

for I live in two worlds—
the real and the written.

09.25.2019
©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo by Thought Catalog on Unsplash

postal code stamps

Our tongues are dancing muscles
sprinkled with the magic dust of languages,

as if before birth we’re treated
on a buffet of diverse dialects and accents

where we select how our mouths will circle and arch
to utter each twisted word’s lyrical march, but

pause and place your vein-hand
in the middle of your breasts, there,

there is a polyglot organ,
tapping ceaseless da-dum, da-dum,

tasting the kindness in a stranger’s smile,
touching the tendrils of love’s blurry profile.

There is where we learn,

our tongues may be the dancing muscles
sprinkled with the magic dust of languages,

but our hearts are our postal code stamps
proving this big, big world is our residence.

04.19.2019
©2019 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo not mine

For dVerse Open Link Night #241

e x c h a n g e g i f t

Words are the gifts I have always wanted for myself.
They are my bars of chocolates,
my calorie-free slices of cheesecake.

My words is the gift I can give to the world.
Carefully wrapped in thin papers of prayer —
stamped with a wish that they reach

the soul who needed them

the most

even after my own gift

of life

is done.

04.07.2019
©2019 R C. Gonzales | A Reading Writer.
All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

For NaPoWriMo 2019Day 7.
Our prompt for the day (optional, as always) is also inspired by McKibbens, who posted these thoughtson her Twitter account a few months back:

What do you deserve? Name it. All of it. What are you ready to let go of? Name that too. Then name the most gentle gift for yourself. Name the brightest song your body’s ever held. Summon joy like you would a child; call it home. It wanders, yes. But it’s still yours.

Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem of gifts and joy. What would you give yourself, if you could have anything? What would you give someone else?