Showing posts from 2012

Dear GOD, thank your for another year. Here's me again...


A Blessed 2013!


Merry Christmas Everyone! (Our Lady of Hope, pray for us)


How To Write A Poem Using Figurative Language

Using the figurative language adds human touch to words. While it makes prose more interesting, it sparks a lucid image in poetry.

A word is most effective when used with care. A polished poet uses the right denotation (dictionary or factual meaning) and connotation (figurative or suggestive meaning) of words.

The figurative language is woven by the poet from the stock of experiences, knowledge, and zeal she deals with everyday, in and out of her world. Through the senses, she relates words with pleasure so the readers could feel, hear, see, smell and taste.

Way back in high school, my English teacher (Miss Jose) asked, "What's a cloud like?"

"It is like a cotton ball," I answered. Until now, that scene is vivid to me dealing with similes and metaphors.

See this example.

A simile is a comparison with the use of as or like.

That is: A cloud is like a cotton ball. It is soft as a cotton ball. It is white as a cotton ball.

A metaphor is an implied comparison with…

On Iwrotefiction: I love Cookies!


Tips For Keeping Notes While Writing Creatively

Tips For Keeping Notes While Writing Creatively By Rosalinda Flores-Martinez
When I write fiction or nonfiction, I make sure I use my notes on my journals and those texts I have marked on books.

It is true that you can never be a good writer if you have not read widely.
In writing, you cannot spark inspiration if you are not passionate in your work. You would write dull as when you wake at dawn with no urges and kiss without fire. Yet, if your muses are up all the time as good work habits, your work will stand the test of time and tide.

Here are some tips.

Mark your books. This is a way of interacting with the writer and the texts, especially while writing creatively. (See articles online "On Marking Books")
Rewrite forceful statements and relate them spontaneously with your own thoughts.
Reread your old notes or journal entries. Get those that could suit the topic.

Explore new words. Writers are word lovers. They make their own (informal) definition of words.

Consult the d…

Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad




By Rosalinda Flores and Ben Crisp

The coffee was still too hot, so I cradled the foam cup between my knees and lit my last cigarette.

My last ever, I promised myself, as I had done the day before.

The park was mostly empty. The sun had not yet crept above the horizon, to burn the dirty greyness from the dawn sky, and it would be at least an hour before the rest of the city left the their homes to brave another miserable taglamig day outside.

There had been reports of another journalist shot in Manila. I had long grown used to such news, acknowledging it with a kind of postured indifference that my ex-girlfriend had found no comfort in. It didn’t matter to her that I was relegated to the smallest sections of the sports pages; I was white, and besides, could not an outraged sports fan be just as violent as a vengeful gangster or deranged terrorist? She was probably right. Still, I found comfort in my own sense of insignificance. Speaking barely a word of Filipino, and – som…


Dear Poets: May I Leave A Comment? Thank You.

To: Sir William C. Williams (on The Descent)

Descent is the moon that wanes beneath darkness

Clouds, gray nights of cold

Like a love unrequited

Like tales untold

Like throes hiding under shadows

Like dreams unrealized burrow

Etched is truth, there lies abyss

Lonely lilacs surrender peace.

To Mr. R. Eberhart (on Grave Piece)

Death nigh unto life, lay questions of tomorrow

Four doves in the grave, blight then, now sorrow

O crystal Tear, of all be near, I shall not fear, I shall not fear!

To: Mr. W.H. Auden (on Perhaps)

Your “barren virtuous marriage of stone and water”

Is a ring in my heart where name and image meet.

You paint a soothing ocean in the summer

Black stones glittering gold cobwebs ponder

Underneath stones sparkling ripples of kiss

My lips supple - still, pure pink for your love

Lithe for your flesh; be for you, Dear love.

To: Sir Dylan Thomas (on After the Funeral)

Could there be a love like Michael Furey’s love?


A Remembrance


Dear Jesus, hear our prayers.

The LIST of my professor in one of his newspaper columns -

scared me -

while i read the names of the dead one by one.

It was a frightening suspense - when those dear to you

slowly leave...

The world is a big race track

Our footprints soon, in earth and water.

Eternal rest grant unto the faithful departed, O Lord

And let they perpetual light shine upon them.

May they rest in peace. Amen.

rosevoc2 on iwrotefiction



Kuwento ni Rose Flores – Martinez

30 Piling Kuwento 2003

Editor: Danilo S.Meneses

Introduksiyon ni : Reynaldo S. Duque

Makikita pa rin ang maraming bundok sa daan papuntang Bicol. Hindi maikakaila ang masukal na mga lugar. Sa bintanang salamin ay matatanaw ang lumang simbahan, na parang makapapasong tingkad ng liwanag, dala ng sinag ng pusyawing asul na ilaw ng krus sa gilid ng bundok.

Hindi ko maitago ang pagkamangha sa ganda ng kislap ng pusyawing asul na ilaw ng krus, hindi rin makapagsisinungaling ang aking damdamin.

Maganda nga, napakaganda ng kinang ng liwanag, ngunit sayang at hindi ko man lamang nadama ang hiwaga nito. Malamig ang dampi ng hangin sa paligid, may init ang sinag ng pusyawing asul na ilaw – katulad ng magkahalong lungkot at saya na aking nararamdama. Kung hindi nga lamang dahil kay Lola Basya …

Ano iyon? Mga ibong gubat? Marami pa ring ang mga kikik na nakakubli sa hinganteng mga punong kahoy sa gilid ng kabunkukang aming dinaraanan, pumupuno sa puwang n…


Show for dance scholars

AWIT AT SAYAW, a fund-raising musical and dance production, will be presented on Nov. 15, 8 p.m., at the Music Museum in Greenhills, San Juan City.

YOUNG DANCERS (front row) Obia, Israela Joana Aliermo, Katherine Ann Gayon, Piol, Kimberly Gayon; (back row) Nowell Joseph B. del Rosario, Marquez, Israel Jeru Aliermo, Bulig, Mark Jayson Gayon, Fernando and Cejrich Daniel B. del Rosario

The show will feature a dozen ballroom dancing scholars of Dance 116, which is owned by Emily Silva.

The scholars are Angelou Obia; Israela Joana and Israel Jeru Aliermo, whose father is a school driver and whose mother is a government employee; Katherine Ann, Kimberly and Mark Jayson Gayon, whose father is a janitor and the mother is a housewife; Dannah Joyce N. Piol, whose father is physically handicapped and the mother is a housemaid; Nowell Joseph and Cejrich Daniel B. del Rosario, whose father is unemployed and whose mother is a freelance travel consultant; Juan Paolo Marquez,…

WALDEN 3 (From You Tube)




It was the moment I was so afraid to come. It was the moment of truth.

You, whom I loved so much will go away and never come back. But I trust GOD would hold you. That is how I accept things. It’s the dead end, when its time letting go, we hold nothing but the light and love of GOD.

The sickness that wearied your body made you leave me and separate, in some way to find some time for yourself and your remorse. Maybe, like St Peter. I realize in your actions the love you had for me and your gaze so far and deep could not explain in words all that you wanted to tell me in the words: because I love you. I knew it. It knew it.

Our wills never met, except in the love of GOD. Our bodies never entwined because your body wanted someone else.

I heard you cried softly in your agonies. You always came to me and told me about the love you had for Zita. Zita who wouldn’t love you because she thought you stole her virginity where she was blooming a dainty pink rose. She thought you eve…

RoseVoc2: IWroteFiction / Mwahs! Smile!


Blessed Pedro Calunsod, pray for us and the whole world. Amen.



Net Chat (A Fiction Story)

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Madness creeps to explore new possibilities. How many men can a woman have in a day? I was curious. It was discovering a feeling I had not the luxury in life. I was in a barred, cemented walls that was almost like a tomb. A core in a crust. So I plunged my fears and swam across depths of time and space. First time.

I would taste the pleasure of emotions in words. It was a trance. A temporary exit to the power-playing people around me in the real-now. I began to find the answers to my complicated ideas, deconstructing and reconstructing every word; trying to separate water and oil. I would like to think, there is a knife on my neck and every wrong move I make would slit a cut on my throbbing throat like killing a helpless chicken.

Maybe, I can become what I dream now. In this development of technology, words and letters are like people talking to me face to face.


“Hello and heller!”

Everyone greeted everyone hello. Well, not he…



You were the dream I had last night

All - about you. When you held me

In the arms of eternity

When you kissed me in the brink of

Death. When you breathed in me. I

Knew I was the first you ever loved

I felt how you ached when words were

Mute. And you couldn’t shout your moan

And you couldn’t touch that dainty

Pink lace of time


Deserve my love

Every beat of my heart will kiss

For you. Every song I sing will

Shout for you - how much, how much

I love


Rainbows flow and waterfalls

Gush on me. The clouds, the wind

A stage where I dance as day

And night I weave moon and stars

Then you, put a crown on my head,

The gleaming jewel of sun rays

I feel your eyes burst me. Your heart

Raise my brokenness. I die,

For you

I live

For you

No other man would dare take me

Except you. In all my agonies

Drenched in every sorrow of the world

I have loved you

How my spine shivered, how my

Breath whispered your love. Till fragrant

Flowers bloom, Sahara flows

Fountain, and dawn hera…

RoseVoc2: Iwrotefiction. Mwahs.


August Nights

September  10, 2012
August Nights
Tomorrow I will be hanged. I woke up ‘coz physical urgency has to go A picture of Golgotha To Trinity be praised My blood, water to arid mesh Brushed, perfumed my breath Tomorrow, after today it will be done Washed my hands, foamed untouched Because tomorrow, I will ascend Lined pillows like jets From the sepulcher of mind Checked locks and loops My agonies long offered for you Then hot water in a cup, for one Will reap fields of golden pears Sat for a while, and folded knees in front Jesu and Hannibal My bequest - Tomorrow, after today, I will be a different person Might be late, bustled like a horse And now in my summit Some plaster on my ankle, slip feet into flip flops, legs into dark denim pants In my last remaining days – will be daring seventh tides A blue ring on my thumb, and one more sapphire Your heart and mine, in one arrow, pinned in God’s collar. 

Rosevoc2 on iwrotefiction