Posted in Love Poems

Deprive me not of choice

Deprive me not, my charming prince
from dancing with the count.
I can’t remain a trophy toy of yours
in this ballroom crowd.

Deprive me not a moment’s glance
at him whose heart adores me —
the glass shoe that was returned to me
wounded my feet as I pranced.

So I must choose the count at once
and settle the matter in my head,
and give my heart an upper hand,
like destiny, fate and circumstance.

April 5, 2010

Posted in Paean of Praise

Where Hats Go

I’ve let go the need to know why
for you know better than I.



I have learned to speak with the Wind.
He responds with beauty, with words
courageously unfettered but not sans

form, unlike men. He hears me, even as I
mumble scores of incoherent shouts for
freedom which only the Wind and heart

comprehend. There must be a wind in me
which sways with It, or perhaps, a wheel, as
a turbine works well with flowing water.

I have learned to follow It from east to west
and believe that He clutches to His breast
seeds that make the fruits grow in forests

and fields and in the ancient verses and
prose in the preparation of the coming
harvest of souls. Today, I met a young lark.

I told him about the Wind, but he laughed
at me. As if on cue, the wind swiped off the
hat from my head. Off the straw flew to

where the Wind blew. I chased what I would
be divested and deprived of. The young lark,
holding on to his, couldn’t fly with only a wing.

“Where did the Wind take your hat and go?”

he asked. I couldn’t quite answer if it was a place
or a time or a time and place like this one though
I am there and not there. I will find myself in that

destination, soon, and them who didn’t hold on to their
hats and rings and scepters, but spread their wings to
embrace the Wind and lose such hats and other stuff

to gain more.

March 27. 2010

Posted in Hope

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

Posted in Paean of Praise, Uncategorized


In my earlier excursions through
the types and shadows
that prefigure the work of Christ
on the cross, I was never
warned by the presence of any
prefigurement or foregleam
that would prepare me to understand
the difficulty of finding redemption
in my attempt to understand
Vos, Van Til and Kline.

Ruth V. Mostrales,
and my paper is due today March 16, 2010

Posted in Uncategorized

I’m Afraid of Space

Im afraid of

space, and its bossy

ways, how it grabs unwilling

subjects for its

canvas. I must run with

haste, before it traps

my gaze, for it

imprisons the restrained

through its


It has devises,

contraptions, that

release inhibitions —

I was victimized by its

beauty not just

once! And then,



I was feeding its

fancy — with a verse

that I rehearse

only in hiding.

‘Tween the whiteness of

X and Y, it desires to

exemplify … with the

brushstrokes of honesty and

abandon. I will fail to be

impervious, if it is

inconspicuous — for it

blends like a cunning


To paint me through my own

blood, while my heart is in

denial, I will succumb to

fill the void

unconsciously. With

a verse,

a song,

a poem, it will

trick me to confession,

and make each tiny,

lonely space

filled finally.

I’m afraid of space,

and its brooding ways, and its

custom to draw

fools to come fill it…

I’m afraid of space, and

its charming face — and

The way

I’m always sucked to

be in it.

by Ruth Mostrales
lifted from an old blog…

“All artists are afraid of space.” Adapted

Posted in The plea of the old melody...

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

Posted in Bosom Friends, court of reverie, Love Poems




For P.L.


They used to amuse me —

My aunts and older female friends.


How they counted the

wrinkles around their eyes,

how they tried to hold back the

years from entering that

space, that ballroom

of theirs where all their

secret hopes and

fantasies of a princely visit

after compliance with a

royal decree,



Now, I wonder why Cinderella

needed to go through a fitting

into a rigid glass shoe

before she could be happy. 

I wonder why she had to

scrub floors before she could properly

prance on them with her prince.

I wonder why the fool

in all his wit and charm could not

recognize her while she played

Raggedy Ann.


Men amuse me more, now —

So I ask:  “How do you love someone

who lets a shoe decide?

How do you dance with him

who loves the princess

but not the servant?


For eventually, women will be Raggedy Anns,

one way or another.

I wonder if with such prince,

there is happy ever after.


August 1, 2009

August 14, 2009


Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape

Posted in Apologetics, Love Poems

Should Love



Should love always be on each occasion —

One, being engulfed by cascading emotions

and two, in every step a physical phenomenon?

Love, in its purest sense still succumbs, 

let me suggest, to the higher demands

of reason.

For if love were not a decision,

Then love dies with every season.


ruth mostrales

4 may 2009

Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape

Posted in Hope



The evening is a coward studded

with stars, like a mighty man

of valor decorated after wars.

From the pits,

the survivors of maiming

Cry to him.  His eyelids

kneel under benign skies

For redemption.  The reaper

connives with gloom, and

sows some weeds inside

the lids where honest light fades.

Darkness feeds the frailty of

his bones, and his limbs,

lugging sordid rifles, drag away

Into the night, so no one sees.

There, a countless us pant to quicken our

Immortal souls.  Somewhere inside,

A door appears to usher

The willing among us, evening and all —

Soldiers, again

To the fray.

The evening is a coward studded

with stars, like a mighty man

of valor decorated after wars.

ruth mostrales, april 2009

Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape