A Token from the Sailor Lost

I must give my lady a token
For the last one I sent was broken
A bottle of the sea to her from me
Was spilled on the sand irreverently.

She greatly despised the ocean and me
For she longed for a little flower reverie
She did not wish to keep the bottled sea
And the waves that stole the wonder in me.

It was a lovely day and the sea, warm
When its limbs attacked me without alarm
From its depths I’ve spoken her name aloud
But my voice was eaten by the ocean shroud.

From underneath the sea, can flowers ever be?
I can’t plant a flower garden for her glee
May she find another dreamer to serenade her with a lily
from this sea, and set me free.

(c) Ruth Mostrales, June 2010

The Unrecited Poem

The Unrecited Poem

The poem that you never recited, when our
conversation was halted, is the reason why
sleep cannot fall upon my lids.

Like a fruit that’s way too high, that would die
to descend from the sky, the poem that was never read
cries to me — I can’t sleep, and I know why.

Ruth Mostrales
The dawn of 7 May 2009

Ang Tulang ‘Di Nabigkas

Ang tulang hindi mo nabigkas, nang ang
usapan nati’y mapigtas, ay dahilan
upang ang pagkatulog sa aki’y ‘di mahulog-hulog.

Gaya ng bungang masyadong mataas, na walang ibang
hangad kundi ang mapitas, ang tulang ‘di nabigkas ay
humihiyaw sa akin — at dahilan upang ‘di ako antukin.

Ruth Mostrales
Madaling araw ng 7 May 2009

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

i cannot write

I cannot write


I cannot write

A verse today

I cannot paint

A rainbow now


I cannot weave

A song, a dream

I cannot think



I cannot dance

My feet are weak

I cannot flash

A smile


My mind is filled

With other things

I need not justify


I want to write a

Verse or two but

I am dummified


Today he came

And looked at me

His puppy eyes

They cried


Now I couldn’t say

A word ‘bout love

I am ill qualified


My mind is filled

With other things

I need not justify



(c) ruth mostrales, february 2009

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It’s a nice feeling, it’s a strange feeling.  Is it love so far? 

Or is it just Shakespearian imagery blown to agonistic proportions?

My reality or conception of it has been challenged by his wit,

But its effect did not remain in the realm of the mind, rebelliously

Leaping from the stable state to compromise that blurred dividing line

Between fate and decision.  Come to think of it, fate is elusive to one

Who cannot decide.  I have become forgiving with you, surprisingly.

I will never admit to anyone being more endowed than me, and

I customarily meet challenges with a closed fist.  More than fate,

More than hate, I began to think about love and what they entail. 

I have never heard such a disturbing, yet exhilarating thing from myself.

If men could create with words, you sure spoke them to renewed

existence in my heart: walking under canopy trees, searching the 

stars in your eyes, and then, a cataclysmic big-bang when the heart

becomes aware, though I’ve ignored them before, follows.  Ah, smitten

were the sentinel words I’ve crafted for these times, those friends rarely

strived against the wishes of the gushing wellspring of life or death,

that curious piece of beating flesh wrapped with wires that takes little ideas

to the littlest parts. Through sophisticated passageways, conduits, pipes,

they must go somewhere to rest: a page, a song, a dance, upon me. From

experience they get in the way half the time, the other, they hold sway.

Your words grew hands to touch me, that’s what.  Your words are moving

to harass my sanity, a surprising thing, for I demean myself only for

my pleasure and sake. The need does not arise to unwrap you for you are

fancy enough to produce words for this effort.  I have not decided, though —

fate seems to follow a course unhindered thereby letting vigilance sleep

the night, for as the buses have left to reach the littlest parts, in secret,

they seem to find no need to know their way back for they have come to find

rest in me.  They have found home in the dampness of that muscle,

embraced by the warmth of yearning that says I am ready to love again. 

Then again, these are mere words I have rephrased from the past today. 

Words are too fickle to live by, I say.

ruth mostrales

january 2009