Utopia

Utopia

The carefree swirls of tepid
yellow and dots of sparkles on
Van Gogh seas, hover above him
as he dreams a scene from a land afar —
far from where he lay.

There, ribbons of light flutter from
the sky and flurried children seize
them, so they can go where the
sun goes and it will always be
a day for telic consummation.

(c) ruth mostrales
june 29 2010

The Doodler, the Dabbler, the Drama

I was only five years old when I got into trouble because I told my teacher what my mother and her co-parents had been saying about their observations of her (my teacher’s) not-so-nice demeanor. Call it a traumatic experience (I think so, too…) but a lot of times, what I have become (silent/melancholic) has saved me from unnecessary skirmishes and hair-pulling incidents that my contemporaries easily get into.

I became this monster — one who wouldn’t speak unless spoken to, and one who’d rather write her thoughts than speak them out. Being on silent mode most of the time developed my observation muscle — I have become a keen perceiver of people’s behavior. That’s nice, but not until I realized I have leveled-up into another type of monster — the silent and perceptive/intuitive pen-wielding type who’d live and die a recluse given enough encouragement from embittered old maids.

Teaching kids taught me to loosen up a bit and have fun. Working with marginalized groups also taught me to speak for others who cannot speak for themselves. I learned to write with a purpose, and I learned to write with passion. I learned to read the Word of God and to understand the creative divine process as He makes things beautiful in His time.

At times I am reprimanded for being lazy, sullen, mean, scared, melodramatic, overly emotional, apathetic, detached, careless, cranky, impatient, tactless, sloppy, mundane and a combination of all of these, but I am learning… Indeed, I am a work-in-progress, but by God’s grace, I am getting there.

I feel weird when I don’t have a pen and paper inside my bag, or when bereft of any device or gadget on which to write/record/save my thoughts. – rvm

Tears of Praise

In times like these
I know God remembers
In times like these
I know He is Love
He is my Hope and my Refuge
And I’m never alone
In times like this
He sits on His throne.

When the moments of sorrow
And moments of rain
And the looming tomorrow
Are scaring me again
When the moments of darkness
Assemble all fear
There’s doubt in the air
In times like these.

But in times like these
He is my Tower
In times like these
My Solace and Shield
He is greater than any burden
He is better than fear
He is my God
Also in times like these.

When the strength of my youth
Is challenged by decay
And the best of my years
Fades swiftly away
The uncertainties and dangers
Of every day
Bring me to my knees
In times like these.

When the Word became flesh
He knew times like these
And in His frail body
He felt times like these
Oh my Savior, Redeemer
Help me bear this cross
This heavy cross
In times like these.

ruth v. mostrales
june 14, 2010

to all who are reading this poem, please pray for my niece who might face a delicate operation this early point in her life. thanks and God bless you all. – rvm

Ordinary Great Day

It’s an ordinary day, too ordinary,

but it’s a great day to praise the Lord.

I woke up, I ate my breakfast and I said,

“Hello…” to the guard.

Though run-off-the-mill, un-extraordinary,

it’s a great day to praise the Lord.

I do not seek miracles to stun me,

(I’ve seen enough done in my life);

but if God’s grace exceeds expectations

again, in my heart, there’s room for enough.

But today is an ordinary day, and nothing

seemed to happen… I smiled at familiar faces

that responded in familiar ways — those things

that we do without even thinking, like blinking.

But all in all you could call it an ordinary day —

an ordinary great day to praise the Lord.

Though others complain, I am constrained

That it’s the best day to praise the Lord.

The Wife

She will spot the littlest drop of
his cologne on her polished floor.
When her husband arrives, she would suggest
that the floor be covered in vinyl resembling
wood (like the halls of her university days)
unlike the mirror floor of their suburban home.

After work, her husband is too tired to
notice the floor and her reflection thereon.

Before her husband leaves for work,
she makes sure he’s got his watch on.

The kids have flown.
The TV shows reruns.
She will sit by the window and witness
the neighbors pass her by,
one show after another before
sign off, nothing being new.

She convinces herself that she must
start a conversation before her husband
effectuates the contract.
She could talk about the floor again,
turn his eyes there to behold the
stain that had become permanent and
perhaps do something about it.

September 14, 2009

Whirlpool

 

Whirlpool

Ruth V. Mostrales

I am finding ways to understand myself in relation to you.  I think it is a futile task because I shouldn’t touch upon the subject.  I always write concerning the things that matter.  I saw you today, again.

In the whirlpool of events where our meeting is neatly placed, I cannot tell what came first — admiration or fate.  I struggle to remember his face now.  You’re a mainstay in my thoughtless fixation on the horizon.

Things are whirring past, and now around me.  I cannot stop them or change their course.  My feet is on the ground yet my thoughts wander on the possibility, the perhaps — the possibility of dear fate merging with love, and you in this whirlpool.

7:44 PM, February 9, 2010