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Showing posts from March, 2013

My Psalm Proem Narrative

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Passion Of Christ

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COLORS: PAINTED TEXTS

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A blessed Wednesday!

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today is Wednesday

i am exploring possibilities

of the global community

i can embed pictures now

with some of my poems

it really is "bird by bird"

maybe you read me, maybe you don't

but what matters is we've touched here

a piece, i come into your heart and thought

and as i am, as i write this

all of me is yours

this is my work

this is my vocation

i thank God for you and me.

/rosevoc.march 2013
/iwrotefiction

DEAR ONE

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dear one

you know me well. you see my secret parts, sad and funny parts of my being. you think about me, sometimes; but not much as I think of you; every single day. it's nice to have you along the journey of highways and rocks, as we etch history next to each other or side by side, like north and south or east and west. when we touch we feel life together, erase meridians and live as one heart, so pure that could move the earth to merge with sky. you are my sun, my moon, my rain, my air, my water, my shore; here I become a pagan - because I adore you. what love to me - is you.

in time of death, my love letters will end up as the night ends; yet in the morning, it will stay alive with you like a burst of zeal moving you, facing God. one day seems like a thousand years for me, while you're away. my heart beats only for you. thinking over every tone of your voice, enchants me like when the ocean divides and the heaven opens. and right now, i am memory incarnate, unworthy to keep…

TRAIL

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Trail
To the library, I go, station by station.  
You,  peak of my dreams.  
Those pigeons come to gather around my terrors, and for a time, say hello, daring on my palm, swift, ascending for a next flight.
I sit in the park, waiting for your call.  My phone is dead, as your voice far and away.
“I’ve tried to hitch, Baby –“   become a flowering shrub like althea – but that isn’t just me; because I rake fire, kneel side by side with the sun or just stay a plain blade of grass.
A monument of mountains, St. Jude in my pouch, that winter, facing all the seasons of the earth, I face empty graves, most beautiful to make love.  I mine every corner of katakana and kanji.
“So where are you?”
Sparkling shops of wedding gowns in front of dull pavements glazed with ice - an elegant silk for a dress razing my guts, a crow burrowing a steeple, posts lighting one by one - 
Wither our promise?
“Never stop,” my footsteps tell me.
“Just don’t  stop…”
Shadows start to peep, night burns the afternoon, sinuous wind b…

The Miracle by Ben Crisp and Rosalinda Flores

THE MIRACLE


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…

Rosevoc2: I Wrote Fiction

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