my reward

My Reward

Ruth Mostrales

My if-onlys are taken care of by Grace. My what-ifs are taken care of by Faith. My neither-here-nor-therenesses find themselves in His plan — I am safe in the hollow of His hand. There is no fear when the storms bombard, for my castle is not built on sinking sand. My hope is built on stable land — His love is my reward. ruth mostrales 24 July 2009

The Divine Conductor Laid His Baton on the Table

The Divine Conductor Laid His Baton on the Table

 Ruth Mostrales

 

He left without a word.

Anyway, he was not that good with them,

so nobody could tell how it all ended, except that

it had begun to rain that day.  Nobody heard a cry for help,

No nothing.

We wish he could have said:

 “I’m leaving, little ones.”

 

On his doorstep, the welcome mat

was unmoved.  No one sees it often.

When he leaves his house,

he abandons no one inside, just a ghost of the past —

Grandma, the only woman

he truly loved and loved him back.

 

When we got to him his eyes were

transfixed on the ceiling, something he sees everyday.

We thought, perhaps heaven opened before him,

 (otherwise, he wouldn’t stare with such passion) —

he, a spectator of  a host of winged musicians

playing the sound, that of trumpets; yet, how queer to his

earthly ears and how light upon his tired soul,

scooping him up for a joyride of notes

never before released from the realm of

creativity, ingenuity or imagination

because such vessels cannot

contain nor pour

it.

 

Of that character must have been the spectacle before him,

for he never closed his eyes until he was found. 

We recovered his trumpet

(already ill with rust).

It was as dead as it was silent.

 

Others surmise he must have struggled for that

last blow, as a trumpeter prepares for the long

finale, sucking in air and filling his lungs

for that final flight, before the curtain falls and the final applause.

Be that as it may, we were in agreement with one thing:

There was no encore performance that day —

the Divine Conductor laid His baton on the table.

 

In loving memory of Uncle Ben…you will never be forgotten. 

-work-in-progress-

Unbearable Distance

My Dream and You

My Dream and You

 

Where do dreams go home?

Why are they gone when I wake up?

Last night, you filled my mind,

And when I closed my eyes,

There you were.

 

I didn’t mean to find you,

be with you again, and our past

relive.

 

If I looked beyond here,

will my dream be there?

 

Even as fog is devoured by the sun,

My dream of you is stolen by the Leviathan.

 

I wish to keep my dream,

help me in my desire;

Bring the dream with you,

and salute the night

with me.

 

Ruth V. Mostrales

 

Panaginip, Kasama Mo

 

Saan ba umuuwi

Ang panaginip?

Bakit wala na siya

Pagkatapos kong

Maidlip?

 

Kagabi, naisip kita

Kaya’t pagpikit…

Nakita ka.

Hindi ko sinasadya

Na doon tayo’y magkakasama

Muli, at ang ating nagdaan

Ay masasariwa.

 

Kung sa kabilang ibayo

Ako’y maninilip…

Naroon kaya

Ang panaginip na marikit?

 

Gaya ng hamog

Na nilalamon ng araw,

Ang panaginip ko sa iyo

Ay ninanakaw ng halimaw.

 

Nais ko sanang itago

Ang panaginip ko.

Tulungan mo ako

Sa mithiin kong ito.

Dalhin mo ang panaginip

Kasama mo —

At batiin ang gabi

Kasama ko.

 

 

 

Ruth Mostrales

Alter Ego

Alter-ego

I’m the monster in your closet

That you’ve created years ago;

You didn’t find me in your closet,

‘Cause when you checked I didn’t show.

Behind the tassles of the mantle

That is covering your bed,

I have stayed.  Now, you’ll find out, 

I’ve been sleeping ‘neathe your head.

I’m the lie that you’ve concocted,

But, a lie, I am no more;

For you’ve given me much credit

I’m the truth that’s on the fore.

You will hide but I will follow,

In a heartbeat I shall find:

You and your denials

You shall see I ain’t so kind!

I’m the story you have woven

For your indulgence, remember now?

Find me first and then extinguish

For I can no longer hide, somehow.

It’s your time inside the closet!

It’s my time to take your place!

For the monster in your closet,

Will no longer be disgraced.

Ruth Mostrales

Farewell, Firefly

Fire and Flight

 

A firefly inside my hand

Is no firefly at all:

It shoots fire,

But it cannot fly —

It lights up my eyes … but

Is it whole?

 

Shine well, fly well!

Firefly, reclaim your soul.

Remember me

When fire is …

When flight is …

No more.

 

Ruth Mostrales

To Him Whose Words Entice

To Him Whose Words Entice

 

I am in you, and you are in me.  I found myself internalizing a beauty entrusted by the heavens to you when you were born. It is all forever yours, and as a result, can no longer be owned, or bought, or earmarked for second dominion.

I’ve committed my loot to pen and paper, and they’ve impeached me today because somewhere, somehow, a burning heat raised the illicit contract to the sky and you have been notified by the stars that (ever so briefly) formed from their embers.

Punish me by bequeathing a space, a parcel of sky that Your Brightness has not yet touched.  Perhaps then you wouldn’t be so high— distance is just a matter of time— and your star will not be so far.

 

Ruth Mostrales

ON THE SCRIBE by Juan Diego Tamayo

ON THE SCRIBE

As I write, I write myself. I am the one who has spent endless hours with the night ink, committing men’s memories to paper each day. I have written on the desert and every period is a grain of the same. Letters on the sea have been liquid and every word is anguish when it concerns oblivion. Sometimes I am the distant sign that judges. Other times, the letter that extols love. Almost never the one talking about what is just. In me are all the alphabets and I have tried complex calligraphies brought to me from unknown peoples hour upon hour. I have written in blood about gory battles. I have celebrated the triumph of death. I have celebrated the consecration of life with the sap of trees. I am the stellar sign. The sign of so many times that I am lost in it. I have written epistles of pain, of rejection, of sentences. Most times my hand shakes. At some moments my hand enjoys what I write and I feel as if I were caressed by a lost dove. I have brought order to obtuse thoughts. I have reordered the stars and their movements. I have attended the assembly where men conspire against others for power. Death also dictates its judgements to me. I am the celebrant of ancient alphabets in this half-lit room. Only the candelabra keeps me company and with its light I write a better horizon for the future generations. I write now, possessed by the syllables, I write on the stone of sacrifice. Hence the writing. The letter that accompanies me polishes my blood as if it were a diamond. I write with blood, with the same I have seen shed, like rivers of ink, in battles, with the same blood I have wrenched from the mauve sunset, I shall use the same blood to add the full stop to these folios on which I write my life.

© 2008, Juan Diego Tamayo © Translation: 2009, Nicolás Suescún Poem of the Week: http://colombia.poetryinternationalweb.org/piw_cms/cms/cms_module/index.php?obj_id=15032 Juan Diego Tamayo page: http://colombia.poetryinternationalweb.org/piw_cms/cms/cms_module/index.php?obj_id=15021

Unbearable Distance…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QDNm4y7_2Xw

From a dusty old blog…

- – - dare to breathe or achoo – - -

Dec 14, ‘07 4:06 AM for everyone

so it has been said that freedom is not free.  i’ve read countless of essays about it and have heard songs celebrating freedom.  freedom certainly comes with a price (pardon the cliche).  sometimes, we pay for it with our reputation, sanity, money, candy, or  get  it in exchange for swollen eyes or black eyes, hmmm.  let’s get mushy and say that sometimes we give our heart just to have it.  the price of freedom for me was a year or so full of uncertainty, heartache and broken future plans.  there was real pain and what was at stake was a faith that was getting awry as the pain saw depth in me.  i was caught in the limbo of neither-here-nor-thereness… until i was freed.

of course freedom is relative, and as many as there are definitions of freedom is the number of prisons to choose from, i should say.  but when you actually become free, in hindsight you realize that you actually chose that state of being free,  and thereby learn to reconcile with the fact that the shackles you once wore were handpicked from the shelf by no less than YOU.

Whatever it is that encloses you against your will (but with your permission), break free.  it’s never too late.  God gave me freedom because I asked for it, no, I hungered for it.

looking back now at the monuments of incarceration that i have built for myself,  i say with gratitude, “thank You Lord for helping me overcome”.  instead of remaining as such monuments of pain and disappointment, they stand even now to remind me what I should avoid.

oh, wow, open air.

*journal entry

My Article published at PDI

http://opinion.inquirer.net/inquireropinion/columns/view/20091017-230494/After-the-flood