June 7, 2020. My Journal Notebook. I Need to Be Me

I think I'm doing good with everyday chores - my prayers, my academic rendezvous,  my blogs, and facing reality.  I've tried so hard and thank God, my life had been part of these.  I am glad.

Now, at this time, I have come to realize - what else do I need to hone and make my dreams real?

I know we would all die, too, and do good, so I also have to face that I am a writer. Perfection and being too prim are not my goals.  I need to be courageous enough to face  who I am and what I am. And whatever it takes,  I need to be me.  So help me God.

You: A Fusion of Tongues

You: A Fusion of Tongues

How I Wrote the Poem "Colors: Painted Texts"

July 2014: Me - After the PowerPoint

My Journal Notebook. On July 21, 2014. My Old Post

A Glimpse of My Past: Why I Write

After sometime, I am back to my writing again!  That feeling of restlessness, that mixed feeling of sweetness, concentration and lightness, that near consummation of love, that "it" thing that comes fast and slow in a world’s glint and praise of a Creator.

As always, my writing comes out of necessity when one craves as to physical urgency. 

When I was a child, I wrote on notebooks and coloring books.  My coloring was imperfect because it went out of lines.  In fact, my art teacher did not like me.  I was better in English, not so much in spelling, but almost perfect in vocabulary. The first poem that I was able to memorize was “Drop a Pebble in the Water,” by James W. Foley.  I made it easy in impromptu speaking and class discussions.  In written exams, I often got high scores and never failed.  I always searched for new words that rhymed.   I was a fan of Popeye and Moby Dick on TV.  There was one time I fought with a boy on a swing and each of us tried to push each other out of the swing.  I ended up bruised and thrown out of the swing, but I didn’t care because I was able to kick him back.  I did not cry.  That is how I could relate to Sandra Cisneros’ story "The Monkey Garden."

In my teens, I cut out quotes and memorized them all.  Music lured my ear and I always memorized song lyrics.  We were taught to sing well, especially those King and I songs and Huckleberry Finn songs. I played musical instruments and created some poems just for pleasure.  I collected poems by heart from Literature books and tried diagramming sentences.  In many subjects, I was one of the exempted students, not required to take the final exams. It became a habit to stay in the library, if not in the canteen. I loved reading Florante at Laura (by Balagtas) and El Filibusterismo ( by Dr. Jose Rizal).  I couldn’t forget Raskolnikov in the catacombs (Crime and Punishment by the Russian author Fyodor Dostoyevsky) and the play  “Jesus Christ Superstar.”  There was one time I played the role of Mother Mary, another time I played the role of St. Magdalene.  I began to admire boys, but was tight on the rules of my Dad.  When my Dad died, I was broken. 

In college, I wrote small poems and prayers.  I began to buy posters and chapbooks.  I memorized Desiderata and Mi Ultimo Adios (My Last Farewell) by Dr. Jose Rizal.  After graduation and while I worked, I wrote to God, “Dear God,” in my notebooks.  I became intimate with the Black Nazarene in Quiapo church when I went home after school; everyday. That time, I reviewed the classics read in high school, especially the Maxims and Reflections of La Rochefoucauld and the Lives of the Poets of Samuel Johnson.  I fell in love.  I was out of love.  It did not matter because I was happy studying and learning with my friends.  My thoughts of becoming a journalist did not pursue; all I wanted to do, that time, was to finish college and graduate.  My Dad wanted me to become a government servant like him and finish Accountancy.  And so did I.  But then, I continued reading, reading and reading.

I worked after graduation.  I thought it was one of the most boring works, ever!  I had strings of boyfriends as Anne Frank, and in one of the roads less travelled by Robert Frost, I fell in love.  And then, writing came to me for real! 

“Ideas come in search of the true writer.  They throng upon him, and most of the time he does not know where they come from.  The best thing he can do about them as they appear is to make notes.  He never knows at the moment what may come of them,” (Paul Horgan).

When I worked as a paid writer, my writing was brought to discipline.  I always thought of Charles Lamb, “Rise with the lark and sleep with the lamb,” in Essays of Elia.  For some time, I only slept for three hours and awoke at dawn.  My sleep was disturbed by an urge to write and to finish what I was supposed to deliver.

During the hype of high technology, I was on and off my blogs 24/7, until the time my mother died (while she struggled with cancer).

Now, Rilke’s letters have become clear to me, “A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity.”  I never thought I would be writing and sharing, as this, in this 21^st century; all I know is I have to write or rage.  My writing goals before was to be popular and earn a booker prize.  Now, it has changed.  What I hope for is to be read, not for anything, but to share lessons in life and make you (the readers) happy.  After all, that is the goal of literature and the goal of mankind in any field of every vocation.

And so, let there be love. That is why I write.

And this is me, now.  A blessed Monday everyone!  Mwhas!

/rosevocations. Sept 24, 2013.

reposted on july 20, 2014

A Glimpse of My Past: Why I Write

September 24, 2013

A Glimpse of My Past: Why I Write

After sometime, I am back to my writing again!  That feeling of restlessness, that mixed feeling of sweetness, concentration and lightness, that near consummation of love, that it thing that comes fast and slow in a world’s glint and praise of a Creator.

As always, my writing comes out of necessity when one craves as to physical urgency.  When I was a child, I wrote on notebooks and coloring books.  My coloring was not perfect because it went out of lines.  In fact, my art teacher did not like me.  I was better in English, not so much in spelling, but almost perfect in vocabulary. The first poem that I was able to memorize was “Drop a Pebble in the Water,” by James W. Foley.  I made it easy in impromptu speaking and class discussions.  In written exams, I often got high scores and never failed.  I always searched for new words that rhymed.   I was a fan of Popeye and Moby Dick on TV.  There was one time that I fought with a boy in a swing and each of us tried to push the other out of the swing.  I ended up bruised, thrown out of the swing, but I didn’t care because I was able to kick him back.  I did not cry.  Now I could relate to Sandra Cisneros’ story about The Monkey Garden.

In my teens, I cut out quotes and memorized them.  Music lured my ear and I memorized lyrics of songs.  We were taught to sing well, especially those King and I songs and Huckleberry Finn songs. I played musical instruments and created some poems just for pleasure.  I collected poems by heart from Literature books and tried diagramming sentences.  In many subjects, I was one of the few exempted students, not required to take the finals. It became a habit to stay in the library, if not in the canteen. I loved reading Florante at Laura (by Balagtas) and El Filibusterismo ( by Dr. Jose Rizal).  I couldn’t forget Raskolnikov in the catacombs (Crime and Punishment by the Russian author Fyodor Dostoyevsky) and the play  “Jesus Christ Superstar.”  One time I played the role of Mother Mary, another time I played the role of St. Magdalene.  I began to admire boys, but was tight on the rules of my Dad.  My Dad died, I was broken. 

In college, I wrote small poems and prayers.  I began to buy posters and chapbooks.  I memorized Desiderata and Mi Ultimo Adios (My Last Farewell) by Dr. Jose Rizal.  After graduation and while I worked, I wrote to God, “Dear God,” in my notebooks.  I became intimate with the Black Nazarene in Quiapo church when I went home after school, every day. That time, I reviewed the classics; read in high school, especially the Maxims and Reflections of La Rochefoucauld and the Lives of the Poets of Samuel Johnson.  I fell in love.  I was out of love.  It did not matter because I was happy studying and learning with my friends.  My thoughts of becoming a journalist did not pursue; all I wanted to do, that time, was to finish college and graduate.  My Dad wanted me to become a government servant like him and finish Accountancy.  And so did I.  But then, I continued reading, reading and reading.

I worked after graduation.  I thought it was one of the most boring works, ever!  I had strings of boyfriends as Anne Frank, and in one of the roads less travelled by Robert Frost, I fell in love.  And then, writing came to me for real! 

“Ideas come in search of the true writer.  They throng upon him, and most of the time he does not know where they come from.  The best thing he can do about them as they appear is to make notes.  He never knows at the moment what may come of them,” (Paul Horgan).

When I worked as a paid writer, my writing was brought to discipline.  I always thought of Charles Lamb, “Rise with the lark and sleep with the lamb,” in Essays of Elia.  For some time, I only slept for three hours and awoke at dawn.  My sleep was disturbed by an urge to write and to finish what I was supposed to deliver.

During the hype of high technology, I was on and off my blogs 24/7, until the time my mother died (while she struggled with cancer).

Now, Rilke’s letters have become clear to me, “A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity.”  I never thought I would be writing and sharing, as this, in this 21^st century; all I know is I have to write or rage.  My writing goals before was to be popular and earn a booker prize.  Now, it has changed.  What I hope for is to be read, not for anything, but to share lessons in life and make you (the readers) happy.  After all, that is the goal of literature and the goal of mankind in any field of every vocation.

And so, let there be love. That is why I write.

/rosevocations. Sept 24, 2013.

 

Maroon 5 - One More Night

Dear God, We Hold Nothing But You

A blessed Wednesday!

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

TRAIL

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 blowing from the ground,

I run -

My socks seem just so heavy.

I run; I run - for the next ride -

My heart has, yet, to catch on the subway.

/rosevoc on iwrotefiction.jan 20.2013

ONE LAST CRY

ONE LAST CRY

It was the moment I was so afraid to come. It was the moment of truth.

You, whom I loved so much will go away and never come back. But I trust GOD would hold you. That is how I accept things. It’s the dead end, when its time letting go, we hold nothing but the light and love of GOD.

The sickness that wearied your body made you leave me and separate, in some way to find some time for yourself and your remorse. Maybe, like St Peter. I realize in your actions the love you had for me and your gaze so far and deep could not explain in words all that you wanted to tell me in the words: because I love you. I knew it. It knew it.

Our wills never met, except in the love of GOD. Our bodies never entwined because your body wanted someone else.

I heard you cried softly in your agonies. You always came to me and told me about the love you had for Zita. Zita who wouldn’t love you because she thought you stole her virginity where she was blooming a dainty pink rose. She thought you even raped her because you can be as old as her father. Yes, you were old as her father. She was your nurse and every time she went to your house to check on your health, I knew you lusted for her.

Remember you once told me you wanted virgins? And you were dreaming of Zita to be your next prey. You were a rich man and you could pay the price of your desired commodity. I thought Zita was one of them. And so it happened when you always gave her presents like the signature watches, bracelets, expensive clothing and dined her to the finest restaurants. I may say she had some amazement in those things you offered her and she thought she was smart enough trading her virginity. She got you under her wicked spell.
You knew her mom was a single parent and raised Zita just by selling gambling tickets. I gave you a warning how her family could be indecent.

Zita. I envied her because you told me you wanted her so much. I wished I were her and I wasn’t your bestfriend who was like a mother or a sister. I wished you saw that I loved my body, too, and wanted sex.

We didn’t keep secrets.

You were blushing as you spanked my butt every time I said,“Yes, I wanted sex.” But the time I wanted to do it with an attempting lover, I couldn’t. Maybe I only ached for a moaning hug and a whining stretch of muscles.

“Here, hug me,” you would always say.

And we laughed together.

You told me I might be sick of frigidity. Though how much I tried to want sex, deep in my thoughts, it was sort of a lie. My curiosity zoomed in. I wondered what a kiss meant with someone you adored, when Zita and you smacked in front of me. I wondered how it felt to kiss someone you love so much. My few kissing experiences with my ex–boyfriends couldn’t satisfy my desires. I just couldn’t move my mouth and stick my tongue. I felt nothing turned me on. I just had the knowledge about it in books. Yes, you knew I was a virgin and my hymen was not broken. Several times I told you that. Yes, how I dreamed someone would break it…

“Someday, I want to break my hymen and bleed for love.”

“Really…?” Your eyes were twinkling and asking. You held my hands and I could feel the blood gushed in your manly veins. Your anatomy and discipline, the stability of your age and stature were more than big muscles to me, more than the careless vibrant youth who knew nothing , but just sweat it out in a burst of animal instincts.

When we’re both submerged in this kind of talk, we stopped.

That was nothing to you, you who had countable love affairs. Many times you came to me and whined your emotional discontent. My nights turned miserable while we drank beer and I got hangovers due to those sleepless nights just talking and talking about your sissy girlfriends and how gullible you could be. Well, I remember how you filled my house like a refrigerator with all my favorite goodies! Zita couldn’t do that. She was the woman who hated house chores and cooking. And though she might have loved you now, she had been blinded by your material wealth. She loved your estates, the diamonds she could buy, and how she could look more attractive each day. But it was funny because people saw her like a satirical sketch. Mask and make-up and anime. Your marriage had failed. That was your deadly punch. It had weakened you and brought you low. And I didn’t want that for you.

Oh how I hated Zita! Yet, I always hoped she’d take care of you and try to string back your affections together.

My desire to feel like a woman was never completed. I never knew how it could be completed. If being in love made life colorful, then maybe I had it, or I had not. The fairy tales I read was real perfect and bigger than my life. “Maybe there is no such thing as real bliss, except in ones faith. And a kiss makes a difference books tell. Because Snow White wakes up in a kiss. When you love someone, - it means the whole world, today and tomorrow, yesterday and forever – The sky is the roof, you can run in the forests – naked , and the stars watch over.” You understood my fantasies would never be real.

“Your fantasies are impossible! Only if there’s magic, and there’s a fairy godmother or an angel who goes down from heaven. Or a real prince charming. Mwhahahahah,” your laughter would fill all the space around us.

“Zita is so different from you. She’s wild and lives in reality.”

”Please don’t compare me. I am only your bestfriend, I’m not your wife.”

Yes, Zita was naughty. Men thought naughty girls were attractive. She even showed me the sex gadgets, the rings and helmets you were using, one afternoon while I waited for you. She was too forward to tell me things I didn’t want to know. My flesh shivered, and deep inside I was so afraid. In her actions and insincere smile, I saw she was jealous of our very old friendship. I wanted to scream at her and tell her to stop, but I was being civil because I esteemed your household. She told me how you did things and how she enjoyed your every thrust until your release.

The last time you came to me you were so sick. You gave me white roses and boxes of assorted flavored cakes for my birthday. I said you were so sick because you didn’t talk about Zita but just held my hand and told me ”You aren’t ZIta because you are way above my wife. You are the fairy tale that reminds me the sun will shine, and there’s Atlantis. You’re the strong tower I look up to, bigger than my buildings. You remind me of kindness and just by holding hands, you give me security. Zita can never be like you.”
Your words satisfied my day. I thought you were acting out a drama to please me.
From hereon, I never saw you and Zita. The next day you buzzed me you would be going to America for a heart operation. It was too soon.

For months, we haven’t got any communication, except when I visited your parents in the province where we grew up. Your parents liked me a lot. Mama thought we could be nice as couples but you didn’t like that idea. We grew up like siblings.

“Yuck. Maristela cannot be my wife. Look at her!”

I didn’t know what’s your yuck for because I also got what other females could show. I’ve got contoured measurements and breasts that are so full. Only I acted roughly, and never feminine like other women.

“What do you want of me to be your wife?” Thoughts kept playing up on me.

I missed you then. I worried. I wished I were there with you. Not Zita. I dreamed I was your wife…

One day the news hit the loop. It stunned me. It says your ZIta left you in America for a richer merchant, once your friend. It made me flare up in rage, but I couldn’t do anything. I cursed Zita for her sin. I wanted her nailed inside a coffin. I hurried to the province to check for your condition.

Mama confirmed the news to me. She cried on my shoulders. I became restless.

The next morning you had to go back to Manila. They said that you were okay after the operation but still recuperating.

Before I could meet you at the airport you were buzzing my doorbell, loudly.

“That is Howard!”

I ran to the door and you hugged me tight.

“How are you?”

“You don’t look like you’ve undergone an operation.”

“I’m fine.”

I hugged you and kissed your cheeks. I adored you so much.

You swooned me to the kitchen and you let out your tongue in my mouth. I was gasping for my breath. I forgot my sanity. There I knew the meaning of a kiss. There I knew a kiss is GODs precious gift to people who love each other. There I knew a kiss could be for everyone. There I knew a kiss could be sacred where a man and a woman becomes one.

You knew I heard about the news. I didn’t ask. We just ate. You had chocolates for me. I could see you cut out on your food intake. You were not so strong, and your were hiding it from me.

“Can I sleep here tonight?”

“Yes.”

You slept in the sofa while I watched my favorite cartoon films.

You looked so tired but peaceful. You were forcing to close your eyes for some reason. I could see the innocence of your soul in the situation your were hiding from me. You were avoiding a conversation - that Zita left you for another man.

Good night my Maristela. I pray your fantasies would come true.

Pray?

Ok. That word seemed strange for you. Maybe you learned your lessons. But I was too busy on my cartoons though I felt happy with your utterance.

Finally, I got tired and was getting up to my bedroom.

“Howard we would sleep. Would you like to use my bed? I could use the other room. Howard…”

I was shouting.

Your hands were cold. You wouldn’t open your eyes. You appeared so tired. Instead, I tried to pull you down the sofa so you would hit the mat floor hard and feel your body ache and you would wake up… you were into deep sleep.

I curled my body next to your body, my fingers felt your senses. I was shivering. I rested my head on your chest, unbuttoned your shirt, and unzipped your pants. And then kissed you from your head, your ribs, down to your feet. And then kissed you all over. My body pressed against your body. It felt nice and warm. My breasts were full adoring you, my beloved.

The kiss of a goddess. I kissed your lips again and let my tongue get into your mouth. I thought of your last breath. But your eyes wouldn’t open. I wanted to wail like a child because I demanded the fairytales, and Snow White or the Frog Prince, and the happy endings would come true. It didn’t. But it was Pieta, or the Lady of Sorrows…

Here it worked. And so I raised your head, covered you neatly with a white cloth, and let you hold rosary beads of your first communion, in which you traded your rosary for my high school antique pen.

“You are more than my wife…”

”I am more than your wife…”

Thinking about this conversation, I got back my roughness and gait. I would call your Father Confessor. I would call Mama in the province. I would call the funeral service for a white coffin.

My tears rolled down softly. The sky was dark, it was raining outside.

Rose Flores – Martinez, Oct.8, 2008
Revised, Sept. 17, 2009

Posted http://iwrotefiction.blogspot.com, 2012

YOU

YOU


You were the dream I had last night

All - about you. When you held me



In the arms of eternity

When you kissed me in the brink of



Death. When you breathed in me. I

Knew I was the first you ever loved



I felt how you ached when words were

Mute. And you couldn’t shout your moan



And you couldn’t touch that dainty

Pink lace of time



You



Deserve my love

Every beat of my heart will kiss



For you. Every song I sing will

Shout for you - how much, how much



I love

You



Rainbows flow and waterfalls

Gush on me. The clouds, the wind



A stage where I dance as day

And night I weave moon and stars



Then you, put a crown on my head,

The gleaming jewel of sun rays



I feel your eyes burst me. Your heart

Raise my brokenness. I die,



For you

I live

For you



No other man would dare take me

Except you. In all my agonies



Drenched in every sorrow of the world

I have loved you



How my spine shivered, how my

Breath whispered your love. Till fragrant



Flowers bloom, Sahara flows

Fountain, and dawn herald



All heaven’s rupture of twinkle

Little fogs, stars, and mint snowflakes





Your hands, your eyes, your mouth

Your hope, your will are all I have



There are no other chances that

I live,

And, if not

But

With you



My life for you

Alone for

You.



Rosalinda Flores on iwrotefiction

8.14.2010

RoseVoc2





also on poemhunter.com a repost by author in september